


If I Never

by Jael



Series: Time After Time [1]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Fix-It, Romance, Second Chances, Timey-Wimey, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-06-08 22:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6875623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jael/pseuds/Jael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sort of a fix-it for "Destiny." There's a flesh-and-blood ghost in Central City.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have a certain suspicion that next season, we're going to get a Leonard Snart who's been completely reset to the Captain Cold he was before he set foot on the Waverider. I hope I'm wrong, but this was an attempt to make myself a little more at ease with the idea.

Mick tells her not to do it. In fact, she thinks he'd be happier if she hadn't learned about the presence of a Leonard Snart in 2016 Central City at all, but he can't bring himself to keep it from her.

"It's not the Snart who blew up the Oculus, Blondie. It's the son of a bitch who's just looking for the next score. We both were, once. This one hasn't changed."

Rip says that, given that Snart was at Ground Zero when the Oculus Wellspring blew up, the timeline seems to have ... snapped back on itself, reset one Leonard Snart to the man with whom the Time Masters had never tinkered. The man who'd walked away from a group of heroes on a rooftop without a backward glance.

It hurts, a little, to realize that he hadn't chosen to go of his own volition, not entirely ... although Mick swears the seeds were there.

He'd run into what had seemed an apparition after Rip had dropped them back in 2016 for a few days to make their decisions. Without family, he'd chosen to hit a few of their old haunts before steeling himself to tell Lisa ...

But there, in the bar, blue parka and all, was a ghost.

"He was pissed I'd just vanished. Didn't remember a goddamned thing."

Mick doesn't tell any of them until after Savage's defeat ... even if this Snart could help in the endeavor, he wouldn't, at least not without a lot of convincing they don't have time for. But then he lets the cat out of the bag, just in case.

Sara doesn't say much, but he warns her again later, anyway.

"Trust me. It'll just hurt. I know you two got ... close ... but this is not a Snart who lets people in. Mission changed him, like it changed all of us."

Gideon has told them all that the Time Masters could not affect feelings, that whatever friendships and loyalties they had developed were their own, whatever other strings were pulled. That was ... a relief, really. Something of her own, to remember when the nights were too long and she couldn't sleep.

"... me and you ..."

With this news coming hard on the heels of what had seemed to be his death and the news of Laurel's, she can't take it. She needs this tiny gram of hope.

She just wants to see him alive, snarky and clever and infuriating, just once, she tells herself. Just once.

So she pries from Gideon the knowledge of where Leonard Snart would be keeping himself these days, takes a deep breath, and heads out into Central City.

She knows he has ... or had, at least a few months ago, according to Mick ... safe houses scattered across the city and even in others, but the one she goes to is the one Gideon thinks is most likely.

Having gained entry through not entirely legal means, she prowls through the townhouse in the dark. It barely looks lived-in: minimal furniture, nothing remotely personal in the living room beyond a small stack of books ... a deck of cards on a desk ...

She's so distracted she actually jumps when the familiar sound of the cold gun powering up echoes behind her.

"Who the HELL are you?"

That voice.

She closes her eyes a moment, then slowly turns.

Yes, it's him.

The same black leather jacket he'd been wearing when he died. He's not wearing the goggles, and his blue eyes are angrily ablaze.

There's not an ounce of recognition there.

She's been expecting it, but it's like a body blow. She actually flinches as if struck.

"Don't move," he orders sharply. She's not worried, even with this Leonard Snart. He might shoot if she makes an overly threatening move, but she knows enough of him to be positive he won't just shoot a seemingly unarmed woman for no reason.

She just studies him. Living. Breathing. HERE.

The last time she saw him ...

His eyes narrow further at the look on her face.

"I said," he grits out, "who the HELL are you?"

Not an ounce.

She lifts her hands to show her lack of (visible) weapons, annoyed to find they're shaking just a little, and draws a deep breath.

"No one you ... know. Just let me go. I'll walk away. You'll never see me again."

But her words only seem to anger him.

"No," he hisses back, eyes reflecting the light from the gun, making them bluer than ever. "I'm getting just a little tired of this crap. First Mick shows up after dropping out of sight a few months back, with some stupid story about going ..."

He stops suddenly, then steps just a little closer, lowering the gun just a little, studying her intently. She thinks of all the times she's felt his gaze, and closes her eyes.

"You were there," he says abruptly, in a voice that's somehow changed. "On the rooftop."

"Yes."

A long moment. Then, even from behind lowered lids, she sees the light from the cold gun fade.

She opens her eyes again, can see the wheels turning, the gears working inside that magnificent brain.

"Mick tried to tell me I went on that damn fool 'mission,' that we both did," he says, coolly. "You going to tell me the same thing?"

"I'm not going to tell you anything," she says wearily. "I shouldn't have come here."

He steps closer. She can't help taking a good long look.

She hadn't realized how much she'd gotten used to there being a certain light in his eyes when he looks ... looked ... at her until now, when it's replaced by only a chilly speculation.

No, she should not have come here.

"But you did," he drawls, interrupting her thoughts with startling perception. "Why?"

Give a part of the truth. "Yes, you did go along on the mission. But ... there were changes made to the timeline and apparently you ... didn't. Now. I was just checking on that."

It's so uncanny, how the mannerisms are the same. Of course they are, but they seem like they shouldn't be. That little head tilt, for instance.

"And who are you, to be ... checking up on me?"

Is there the tiniest thread of their habitual flirting in that low drawl?

She eyes him, realizes that his gaze has turned somewhat ... speculative. Not so different from how it was during that first conversation , strolling on the Waverider.

"... just trying to make conversation ... "

Oh, this is dangerous. This is so dangerous. She needs to walk away. She needs to let him go.

"Sara." It's not what he's really asking and they both know it. She gives him a thin smile. He actually returns it.

Dangerous.

"So ... Sara ..." (A frisson of something up her spine at the way he drawls her name.) "... you've established that I'm here and that I'm uninterested in idealistic crusades. Now what?"

You let me walk out of here and we never see each other again.

She can't make herself say it.

He does, though.

"You can walk out of here and go back to your friends, make it clear I'm not interested in them and they need to stop bothering me ..."

That's it, then.

"... or you can let me buy you a drink."

He looks almost as surprised as she is by his words. They stare at each other for a long moment.

She should say no, she should get back, she shouldn't ...

"OK."  
___________

The bar he takes her to is a bit of a dive, really. But she likes dives.

He prowls inside with the air of a regular, eyeing her reaction with curiosity. She merely smiles at him.

There's a jukebox. Probably no Captain and Tennille, though. Her heart clenches, just a little.

She feels his eyes on her and realizes he'd marked that reaction. He doesn't comment, though, just orders them both a beer and leads her to a booth.

There, they contemplate each other.

"The Flash put you up to this?" he asks, finally.

It actually startles a laugh out of her. "I don't even know the Flash."

"Hmm. But you were surprised that I said it, not at the idea that you might." His smile curls at the edges. "Are you one of these heroes ... Sara?"

He doesn't know you, he doesn't have any idea ... even if he does say your name like he's tasting it ...

"I'm trying to be," she tells him with a quiet dignity. "There are worse things."

"Mmm." The noise is noncommittal. "I have a problem with the paycheck."

She smiles a little. "So you've said, Crook."

More than she'd meant to say; it's becoming too easy to try to forget, to buy that this Leonard is the one she knew. She sees him register that they've apparently been close enough to talk, that her delivery of the noun is perilously close to a pet name.

But he doesn't retreat. He takes a swig of his beer, his eyes on hers. "Tell me why Mick looked like he'd seen a ghost when he saw me. Tell me why you felt the need to ... check up on me."

Deep waters. "I told you. You were on the ship. You were ... part of the team. And then a few things happened and part of the timeline apparently reset itself. Now, you never left Central City."

"But Mick did. Now, how," he muses, "would that happen? Mick's always been a follower."

"People change."

Something in her voice draws his eyes back to hers.

Same eyes. Same piercing stare. So easy to try to forget.

"But you ... no one ... expected it to happen. This 'timeline resetting itself' garbage." His voice drops with disgust. "Mick didn't expect to see me. And you ... what, came to verify? That I existed?"

"Yes." It's true enough.

His mouth twists a little. "There's not some sort of copy of me back on that ship, is there?"

"... get him out of here ..."

"... a hero ..."

"... that's what he was ..."

"No," she says. "There's not."

She doesn't manage to keep the emotion out of her voice. His brow furrows, and he leans forward.

But before he can say anything, he catches sight of the pinkie ring on her right hand.

"Where the hell did you get that?!" He grabs for her hand, only to find his sleeve pinned to the table by one of her knives as reflex kicks in. His eyes fly back to hers, anger warring with respect.

The bartender looks their way, but only that. (She's pretty sure this isn't the first knife to have been driven into this table.) They both respond with quick shakes of their head. Nothing to see here. Move along.

He looks backs to find her glaring at him, gives her a rueful look she's also seen before.

"OK. That was ... uncalled for. But impressive," he adds, looking at the knife. "Unpin me?"

"I don't know if I want to do that."

"Come on, you have to admit it was a shock for me, seeing that thing ... there ..." That sidelong look again. "... when I know for a fact it's somewhere else entirely."

She twists the ring around on her finger. She'd used the ship's technology to resize it after Mick had given it to her with the comment that Snart would want her to have it.

She's not sure how to respond without giving things away. But he takes it out of her hands when he searches her face, nods to himself, and then leans back as far as he can with a knife through his sleeve and takes a drink of his beer.

"So. I'm dead, am I? Or," he allows, "other me is."

She holds very still. "What makes you say that?"

"Couple of things. Mick's reaction. The look on your face a few times. That ring. This timeline mumbo-jumbo. You thought I was dead, Mick saw me, Mick flipped out, and then you had to come see for yourself. Does that pretty much sum it up?"

It angers her, to hear him recount it up so flippantly. "Pretty much."

He can hear it in her voice and levels a look at her. "What'd I do, play the hero?"

"You were a hero," she says, despising the little shake in her voice. "You saved us all. You saved the world, really."

This gives him pause, a little; she can see it. But he shakes it off.

"And look how that worked out for me. Other me."

Cold-hearted bastard. It's too much; she slam the nearly empty beer to the table, surges to her feet, retrieves her knife and walks out without a backward glance

It's only a few moments, though, before he's keeping pace with her as she walks through the night.

Finally, he says, "Do you know where you're going?"

"Not particularly."

A "huff" of amusement. "Can I at least help with that?"

She ignores him.

They continue to walk.

"I'm sorry."

Ignore, ignore.

"Sara? If you knew me, any version of me, you know I don't do this much. Please."

"Why? It was the truth. I guess the truth just hurts."

She wraps her arms around herself. It's starting to get truly cold out.

And that's when she feels him settle his jacket around her shoulders.

The goddamned black leather jacket, the one he'd insisted she take during the hull incident, the one he'd been wearing when he died ...

He doesn't know, he can't know. But the gesture undoes her. Tears start to trickle down her cheeks. She thought she'd done enough crying for a lifetime over the past week or so. She was wrong.

She keeps walking, the tears pouring down in silence. He can't have missed that his gallant gesture has elicited an unexpected reaction, but he doesn't say anything.

Eventually, however, she looks up and realizes he's managed to guide her right back to the townhouse. She glares at him. He sighs.

"Look. Come in and have a cup of coffee before you head back out to do whatever heroes do, OK? It's late, you look beat, you can kick my ass if I pull anything."

"You don't drink coffee."

It gives him pauses. "True. But that doesn't mean I don't have it around."

Yet again going against her better judgement, she accedes.

She drinks her coffee in silence while he watches her across a battered table. She does her best to ignore him.

"Sara? Are you going to hurt me if I ask you one more question?"

Despite herself, it makes her smirk. "No promises, but go ahead."

He hesitates for a very long moment. "Were we ... something?"

Something. She gives him a sad smile. "Friends. We were friends."

"Mmm. Friends?" His eyes are fixed on hers. "Not more?"

She shouldn't answer.

"Almost."

"Ah."

His next words are so soft she doesn't hear them at first. "Pardon me?"

"He was an idiot." The piercing look is just as she remembers it, then he looks aside. "I was. Other me. Whatever."

Her lips curve despite herself. "Not that I'm arguing, but what makes you say that?"

"He waited too long, apparently. Lost a chance. You have to take chances sometimes in this business. He should have known better than that. But let's admit it, we're not the best people with ..." A wave of a hand. "All this. Feelings."

She knew ... knows ... him well enough to recognize the more staccato pattern of speech he adopts when he's just trying to get the words out.

"Well, cut yourself a break. I'm not the greatest with them either."

"But you must have cared." That little smile is hovering around his mouth again. "Or you wouldn't have come here."

"Guilty."

They smirk at each other.

Maybe, somewhere, buried deep in his brain, in his DNA, there's an iota of the Leonard Snart who went on the Waverider, who watched her dance in a bar in the '70s, who stopped her from killing Stein, who played cards with her when she needed a distraction from her demons, who gave her his jacket when they were freezing to death, who brought up "me and you."

Whatever it is, it somehow surprises neither of them when he leans over and kisses her.

And it's worth it, to have a new memory of kissing him, one untainted by grief and panic. It is him and it isn't, but she knows what he can be, what's at his core, and that's enough for now.

The kiss gets just heated enough that they're both sorely tempted to let matters progress, but eventually, they draw apart.

There's a look of wonder in his eyes.

"An IDIOT," he says, finally, and it makes her laugh.

He walks her back outside, makes sure she's oriented enough to figure out where she'd going. He doesn't express any further interest in the team he once gave up his life for, and she's a little disappointed.

But time will tell.

They may actually have it, now.

"Thank you," she tells him. He gives her an odd look, but doesn't ask why.

He just regards her.

"So. You'll be leaving again? But coming back this way? Once in a while?"

"We should be." She twists the ring around on her finger.

"Buy you another drink? Maybe dinner?" He pauses. "You like to play cards?"

Perhaps there are things that are meant to be, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, I couldn't quite let them go ...

Two months later, they're landing in 2016 for a few nights again. If Rip gives her an odd look at her request for Central City rather than Star City, she doesn't react to it.

She still knows it's a bad idea. She still needs to see him.

The odds he'll be in town at all, let again at the same safe house, seem astronomical, but that's all she has, so that's where she goes.

The townhouse is the same; at least he hasn't abandoned it. She picks the lock, curls up in a corner of the sofa and waits.

Actually, exhausted, she falls asleep. It's the sort of thing no highly trained assassin should do, but she's just ... tapped out. The mission is wearing on her, and now there's no Snart to help chase away the demons with card games and bar brawls, and Mick is much different these days.

When she wakes, she knows he's there before she even opens her eyes. A faint whiff of leather and cologne. The sound of his breathing. The pressure on the sofa cushions. A sensation of warmth, although he's not quite close enough to touch her.

She feels tears prickle her eyes, behind the lids.

"So. I had myself halfway convinced you were a dream." The drawl is low and thoughtful, modulated to avoid startling her. "You will admit, it was quite a story. And I still can't make myself believe I was ... what you say I was."

She opens her eyes. He's sitting there at the other end of the sofa, long legs stretched out in front of him, giving her one of those sidelong looks from behind half-closed lids.

"But ...," he continues, "as the weeks went on I found myself coming back here to check every couple of days. Just in case.

"And here you ... are."

That voice will always get under her skin.

"Here I am," she agrees, maneuvering her posture into something with an element of his insouciance. "I do believe I was offered dinner?"

"This is so."

He regards her.

"But is that what you _want_?"

It's an odd mix, but there's an air of both flirtation and reserve in his voice. He's not all too sure of her motives, which is fine, because she's not all too sure of his.

Or her own, for that matter.

_I want Leonard Snart back. The one I knew. The hero who insisted he wasn't, the man who understood the demons._

She is not, she knows, going to get what she wants.

"I want ... what would you be doing tonight if I hadn't showed up?"

He looks amused and wary. "Planning a job. I'm not independently wealthy, you know. I'd take you along, but I'm not sure that would work out for either of us."

She's halfway tempted to ask him to anyway, just to have the chance to work with him again. "Probably true."

"So. Square one."

* * *

He knows he probably should have abandoned this safe house during the past few months. Sold it fast, cleared any records, found himself somewhere else that's uncompromised.

Somehow, he never got around to it.

It's foolish. Utterly. It's completely uncharacteristic. And, yet, he still owns the townhouse. Still drifts through on a regular basis, just in case. He's a moth to a flickering flame, and he knows perfectly well how that usually turns out for the moth.

Every survival instinct tells him to run.

He doesn't run.

She's gorgeous, yes, this mystery Sara, and she looks at him in a way no one's looked in a long, long time ... but is she really looking at _him_? Or at this dead ... hero ... who apparently started as him?

Is this how it started?

"This ... version of me ... you knew," he says abruptly. "What happened?"

"You mean, how did he ..."

"No. I mean ... you called him a hero." The word is sour in his mouth. "He must have started out different from me in some way."

To his surprise, she laughs right out loud. "He was only out for himself ... and maybe Mick ..., he had no respect for any sort of authority, and he was really an utter ass." Her lips curve. "I think the first is the only one that ever really changed."

He doesn't know what to say. Can't quite bring himself to ask the question he can sense her waiting for him to ask.

"So, take-out and cards?" he says, finally. "You like Thai?"

* * *

She does. They eat more or less in silence, before he retrieves the pack of cards and waves them at her for her assent.

Somehow the simple gesture, like loaning her his coat during her last visit, provokes an upwelling of tears, which he awkwardly ignores.

She does, too.

"I know you cheat," she tells him with the edge of a smile in her voice. "Don't try to distract me."

"Hmmm." He promises nothing.

In fact, he waits until she's studying her hand before he nonchalantly says, "So, how did you come to be a hero, Sara Lance?"

The use of her last name doesn't even remotely faze her. "Same way anyone does, I suppose," she says calmly, picking up a card. "Trying to make a difference."

"You're a police captain's daughter," he says, unable to keep a thread of accusation out of his tone.

"What, so I can't be friends with a crook?" She's amused. "I used to kill people for a living."

Silence. She glances up, catches the expression on his face.

It's so easy to forget.

"League of Assassins. Ex," she tells him. "I'm sorry; I forgot you wouldn't know that."

"Mmm. That explains the knives, and the reflexes." He puts a card down. Picks it back up. "What else don't I know?"

"Quite a bit, really." She waits until he's about to play another card, then adds, "I was dead for a year."

At this point, he just puts his cards down and glares at her.

She laughs.

She also wins. She's had lessons in the art of casual distraction from a master, after all, and it both amuses her and breaks her heart that she's now using them against him.

Eyeing her, he declines another game, but offers her a drink, which she accepts against her better judgment.

Almost everything about him has always been against her better judgment.

"Why did you come back?"

The quiet question knocks her out of her distraction He's regarding her with hooded eyes, over the rim of his own glass.

"What do you mean?"

He shrugs irritably. "Last time, you wanted evidence I was alive. I am. I think you also wanted evidence I wasn't the man you ... knew. I'm not. I'm under no illusions I'm such a fabulous kisser ..." His mouth twists a little. "... especially on a one-time basis ... so, really, why are you here?"

She swirls the drink in her glass for a moment.

Chooses to give him the truth.

"I miss him. And," she adds as he opens his mouth to protest, "I know you're not him. But at the same time, you are.

"At any rate, you're as close as I can get."

She sees him almost physically shy away from the emotion. He hides it behind a sneer, leaning forward.

"What, all those heroes out there with you and you have to come around looking for _me_?"

"That's sort of the point. I said I was trying to a hero," she informs him, "not that I'm always one. You and I both know heroes can be ... infuriating."

It startles an actual chuckle out of him, and he concedes with a tip of his head. "True enough."

Then his eyes narrow again, though, and he sits back. "You've got Mick out there on the ship, though, as hard as it is to believe. Surely he isn't that kind of hero."

An edge of bitterness there. She supposes she cannot blame him, though it's really not fair to Mick, who'd simply followed him in the first place, whether or not he remembers it.

"Mick is a friend. Always will be. It's not the same."

She meets his eyes.

After a moment, he says, "So. Do you want to help with this job I mentioned?"

* * *

He tells her to meet him at a certain point the next evening, and to wear a fancy dress and heels.

She eyes him. He smirks at her.

"Really. It's for the job. You want in?"

"Hmmm. No one gets hurt?"

"No one gets hurt. I'm not even taking the gun. It's just a recon run, really."

She doesn't give him the satisfaction of asking for more information - he looks obscurely disappointed by this - and vanishes into the night.

It crosses her mind that she's never really tried to turn (either) Leonard Snart's head ... it simply turned anyway. So it seems only fair to see what she can do about that.

(Her better judgment is still screaming at her about this. She continues to ignore it.)

She takes a gypsy cab to Central City Harbor the next evening, then strolls the rest of the way to the meeting point.

She's already waiting in the shadows when he comes sauntering out under the streetlights, clad in an immaculate tuxedo and looking too dashing for words.

"I wasn't sure you'd actually show," he drawls as his eyes pick her out. "Not really a 'hero' sort of thing."

"Just try to stop me." She meets him smirk for smirk as she strolls out into the light herself, letting her long black wrap slip from her shoulders.

She has the satisfaction of seeing the saunter come to a not-entirely planned halt. (Catlike, he recovers immediately and pretends it didn't happen.)

"Nice dress."

"Thanks. Nice tux."

"Hmmmmm." He unashamedly eyes her. "So, how many knives do you have in there?"

It's such a ... Snart ... comment that she doesn't speak for a moment. "Enough."

The glance is heated ... and fond ... enough that again she could so easily believe ...

Could there be a germ of the man she knew in there? Could he have retained any memories, maybe on a subconscious level? Gideon had said not, but given the unique nature of the event that caused all this, maybe ...

"We're going to the annual gala at the Central City Yacht Club," he's telling her. "Someone with a date attracts less attention than someone without. Although ..."

His eyes run down her body again, and return, sparkling, to hers, "in that dress, the only one they're going to remember is you anyway."

"And since I'm leaving again anyway, you win."

"Precisely."

She will admit, it's a very nice dress. As much cleavage as she can show with her scars, a skirt cut high up her leg (and with special panels to better handle combat), a particularly appropriate shade of ice blue.

He certainly seems to find it impressive.

He offers her his arm and she takes it as they start to stroll toward the Yacht Club. Warm and solid and real.

This is really such a bad idea.

"So if it's so much more practical to take a date, what were you going to do before I showed up?"

"Mmm. I was trying to decide if it would be less of a disaster to go alone or to take my sister."

"Lisa." It's a statement, not a question, and she can see him taking note of that. "This not her cup of tea?"

"No." The word is definite. "She gets bored. Things start breaking. Not the desired outcome."

"I see. That is?"

"No fireworks whatsoever. We even have ... somewhat legit ... invitations. We go in, I get a good look at the layout and the security system, we drink a little champagne, steal some hors d'oeuvres are, we get back out."

"So you're telling me I'm a cheap date."

He doesn't look at her, but the smile is there. "I don't think you're a cheap anything."

Most of the guests are being dropped off by limousines and town cars, but they have no difficulty smoothly fitting into the flow of people. And at the door, their invitations are unremarked upon.

He snags them both a glass of champagne, then gives her a speaking glance as he moves toward the edges of the room, turning to casually study the camera systems. She casually follows, turning to watch his back, sipping her champagne and watching for security.

There's a band just starting to get warmed up. Not really her type of music, but it makes her smile.

"You wanna dance, Leonard?"

But she's forgotten again. He just gives her an odd look.

"I'm not much of a dancer."

"I know," she says with a sigh, looking out at crowd again. "But you like to watch."

She feels her eyes on her, but he doesn't say a word.

They slowly make a circuit of the room, him making mental notes, her watching for trouble. She has no doubt he originally meant her as simple camouflage, but watching his back is a role she slips into like a glove; she can't NOT do it.

It's been an hour when she senses something wrong.

"Leonard. Someone's watching you. 3 o'clock."

He turns casually to see, freezes. Mutters a curse under his breath.

"We've been made. Or I have." He immediately starts to move away from her. "They might not realize we were together immediately. Get out of here."

He's no stranger to jobs going south, from his first job with Mick to the Alexa debacle. But this job really should have been a no-brainer. That man who's starting to call the guards over really should have been out of town, should not be here to blow the whistle on the thief who'd double-crossed him, once upon a time.

He leaves Sara behind, heads purposefully for a side door as someone shouts behind him. Out in the gardens, he moves quickly but casually, trying not to draw attention, thinking to get off the grounds before the pursuit can really come together.

No such luck.

The guard who appears from the darkness ahead of him has a gun pointed right at his face. This is new.

Niever must REALLY hate him.

Could be it, he thinks ... and them something hurtles out of the darkness behind him, dropping the man where he stands.

And then Sara's there besides him, grabbing his arm, and they're running for the back gates.

"I thought you were the one who didn't want anyone to get hurt!?"

"That was before he had a gun pointed at your face! And besides, he'll just have a headache." Another guard appears around the corner of the building; she floors him without stopping. "What did you do to that guy?"

"I may once have found another buyer for a painting he originally hired me to steal..."

"No honor among thieves, hmm?"

"He was an asshole!"

"So are you!"

At some point, they've made it off the property and into the greater city. and lost their pursuit, or so it seems. They mutually set a complicated path back to the townhouse, just in case.

Finally, satisfied they're clear, they stagger back up the steps and into a measure of safety.

She turns to him, shedding the dark coat again, flushed and smiling The adrenaline is high in both of them, and if it wasn't a successful job, it also wasn't precisely a failure.

He hadn't missed the way she'd watched his back at the Yacht Club rather than simply providing an attractive cover. And the way she'd taken out those guards ... albeit nonfatally ... to save his neck and clear the way for their escape.

And the way she hadn't left him in the first place, even when he told her to.

He hasn't really had an equal in this business. Mick was always a follower who had to be constantly watched both for ... flammability ... and obedience. Lisa, as competent as she can be when she wishes, is much the same. Maybe that's why he gravitated so much toward The Flash, despite himself. That feeling of someone who might, possibly be an equal, if opposite.

But. Sara.

He crosses the room to her in just a few steps and, before he can think better of it, kisses her.

She kisses him back, fiercely, her hands snaking around the back of his head to pull him down to her.

He hadn't been overly aware of the height difference before; her soul seems so large. But these ... logistics ... aren't the greatest. He hesitates, just a moment, then puts his hands on her hips and boosts her up to the back of the couch.

Oh, this works.

Still kissing him, she slides the jacket off his shoulders to puddle on the ground, then lifts her legs to lock her ankles behind his back.

He doesn't know what he's doing. He's never been one for much close contact, let alone with a woman he's known for a collective double-handful of hours. This whole thing is moving out of control.

He's letting it.

It's a good thing ... or a horrible thing, he can't decide which ... that they're both still fully clothed. But somehow he's gotten the slit skirt of her dress rucked up to her thighs and the cleavage her dress shows is considerable and ...

_... you better be one hell of a thief ..._

She pulls on his shirt just enough to get it untucked, then runs her fingers along his ribs. Coincidentally, just along the biggest scar there.

And it's ...

_the cold-water shock of the skin-to-skin contact_

_the uncharacteristic way in which he's been completely ignoring the logic of the situation_

_the lingering flash of memories he_ **knows** _aren't his_

He panics.

He pulls back, staggers, actually makes it a few feet away before stopping. She half rises behind him, as disheveled as he is, concern on her face.

He puts a hand against the wall, leans against it heavily, his breathing still rough, his mind still conflicted.

"You need to leave."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not the man you knew," he tells her fiercely. _... 'you and me,' a lingering kiss, a flash of blue light ..._ "I'm not. I can't be. And if I hadn't been so ... distracted ... I would have done more research, realized Niever was going to be in town after all.

"This isn't good for either one of us. Leave!"

She does. He tries not to see the expression on her face.

And that night, he dreams of blue light.

And strings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, I"m not totally evil. To be continued.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. I guess this is an AU now. I don't care; I'm still going to write until I think it's done. Right now, I think that's five or six chapters, but that could change.
> 
> (I loved Laurel, but I'm a low-key Olicity fan. Don't shoot me for the reference.)
> 
> I don't usually care for stories in which these two get at all domestic, as I don't think it's their way. But damn it, that's where they wanted to go. (A little bit, anyway.)
> 
> Happier ending (heh) here; I think we all need it.

Two months later, she tells Rip to drop her in Star City instead.

She spends approximately 48 hours watching her dad pretend she'll one day come back and be a good little Star City vigilante and watching Ollie and Felicity being absolutely disgustingly cute together ... and she hops a flight for Central City.

The townhouse has been sold.

There are frilly curtains in the windows and tulips in the yard and children's play equipment out back.

So that's it.

She puts her hands in her pockets and just stares at the house.

She could probably find him, if she truly wanted to. After what an ass he'd been last time, she doesn't really want to. But once the anger and the hurt had faded a little, she could recognize the panic and the fear that had been in his voice that day.

She'd like, at least, to know he's OK.

A car pulls in the driveway behind her. She turns, a fake smile plastered on her lips, to make some excuse about staring at the house.

The older woman who climbs out of the car, hesitates, then takes a grocery bag out of the back seat.

"Are you ... Sara?"

It stuns the excuse right out of her. "Yes. How ..."

"One moment, honey, he left something for you. I'll be right back."

She disappears inside, leaving Sara Lance to contemplate being called "honey," then returns with a small white envelope in her hand.

"I don't know if he rented here at one point or what, but he asked so nicely if I'd give you, only you, this if you showed up one day." She studies Sara with a tiny smile, obviously thinking she's stumbled across some sort of timeless love story. "And here you are. Maybe this will help you find your way back to each other."

She doubts it.

But why disappoint the woman? "Thank you."

She finds a nearby cafe, orders a coffee, turns the envelope over and over in her hands. Finally, she rips it opens.

There's a folded piece of paper, and a key.

She hesitates again before opening the note.

It says, simply, "I'm a jerk."

And there's an address.

The words make her smile despite herself. The address appears to be for an apartment in the city center.

She doesn't have that much time left this visit.

She knows she should walk away.

* * *

It's one of those fine old apartment buildings in Central City, the kind that miraculously escaped Urban Renewal and now are rare and prized. The apartment is on the sixth floor.

There's an elevator; it even looks to be on the new side, but she opts to take the stairs. More time with her thoughts.

The key works.

She stares at it, then eases the door open. The apartment is dark although it's mid-afternoon. She closes the door quietly behind her, then turns on a small lamp nearby.

This, then, is the closest thing to a real home Leonard Snart has.

The apartment is tiny and spotless. No surprise there. But unlike the nearly empty safe house/townhouse, it looks lived-in - a few bookcases full of obviously read books, a desk scattered with papers, a battered leather sofa. The miniscule kitchen, open right to the living room actually has a chipped coffee mug with "Best Brother" on it sitting on the counter.

She darts a look at the closed door that leads to what is probably the bedroom, then clears her throat.

 _I know you're there,_ the sound says, _and you know I'm here. So maybe don't keep me waiting?_

Then she has the sudden, horrified thought: what if he's not alone?

She's just about ready to turn and leave when that door swings open with just a tiny bit of a creak.

"So. You did come back."

"Completely against my better judgment."

He's actually looking as ... casually garbed ... as she's ever seen him, leaning against the doorjamb, barefoot, wearing only a long-sleeved gray shirt and gray sleep pants. As far as she can tell from the shadowed room behind him, he is, indeed, alone.

"Well," he says, a bit diffidently, "I'm glad you did."

She waits. The silence stretches on.

"If you have something you'd like to say, Snart, say it. Then I can leave. I only showed up to make sure you were OK."

He sighs. Then he straightens out of his slouch, and crosses the room to her.

"I'm sorry," he says, finally. "There are reasons I ... flipped out ... but you didn't deserve that. Nor," he continues, "did you deserve the accusation about the job. That was all on me."

"Hmmm." She regards him. "Accepted. I guess. But you're still a jerk."

"Guilty." The word hangs in the air for a moment. She knows why, and he doesn't.

Does he?

He watches her pretend she's not still inspecting the apartment. It's the one place he's managed to keep completely untied to anything illegal and only one other person even knows of it.

"So why the key?" she says, finally. "That doesn't really seem like you."

"Because if you did come back, I wanted you to have somewhere I might actually be on a regular basis." His lips curve. "I would have said the bar, but I thought this might convey a certain ... sincerity."

"It does that." She continues to weigh the key in her hand. "Want it back?"

"Keep it."

"Why? You go from 'get out' the last time I saw you to 'here, have a key' now?" Her voice has risen just a little. She throttles the emotion down.

He's silent for a moment. Then, "I told you there were reasons for that."

"Oh yeah? What?"

"Like some of us don't do the touchy-feely thing really well," he says, with a slight edge to his tone.

"Well, you certainly seemed like you were enjoying yourself up until then ..."

The scar tingles. It makes his tone sharper. "And maybe it's because I kept remembering things that never happened!"

Silence. Then, "Explain."

"Did you ever tell ... the 'me' you knew that I 'better be one hell of a thief'?"

It stuns her. He can see it, shifts as though to comfort her, but stops. He's pretty rattled himself.

"Yes," she says. "I did. Not long before he died. I wish I'd said something different."

It had been a challenge and a taunt, and she'd run from discussing anything serious with him because she thought there'd be all the time in the world.

News flash: There is never all the time in the world. And she, of all people, should have known that.

"Why would _I_ hear it?"

"I don't know. But it _did_ happen. Maybe on some level, you remember."

He doesn't like this. She can see it in his posture and on his carefully blank face. He doesn't like feeling he's under someone else's control ... even if that someone else is the man that _he_ was in another place and time. The man who, after all, who died to give the final finger to the Time Masters for the same reason.

And she realizes she has a choice to make.

She's been wishing all along that this Leonard Snart is her ... well ... the Leonard Snart who never had a chance to become hers. She can admit that. She showed up in the first place to prove to herself that it wasn't him, that this other man wasn't worth her time and her worry ...

And her love.

That's a realization, too.

And she _was_ right. It's not him.

But here's the thing. She's stuck around because she sort of likes the person he is, anyway. Cold-hearted bastard? Yes, a bit. So was the Snart on the ship, after all. Casually cruel, sometimes; a bit of an ass, always; opportunistic and selfish and capable of incredible violence.

But so is she.

And he didn't have to reach out to her that first evening. He didn't have to make it clear he'd like to see her come back, or haunt the townhouse just in case she might be there, or offer her distraction in the form of heist planning ... or kiss her like she hasn't been kissed in a long time, with obvious intention to do more, and _far_ sooner than his counterpart had gotten around to it.

The lines between the two men are blurred and uncertain and apparently there's something weird and ... timey-wimey, as Ray would say ... going on. But first, if she plans to stick around – or rather, keep coming back around - she needs to accept him for who he is now.

She puts the key in her pocket.

He raises an eyebrow.

"I wouldn't worry about it," she tells him. "Maybe it's just an echo. Time can do weird things; trust me on this one."

He's still unnerved, but he accepts the words for now, with a dip of his head.

"I'm sorry," he repeats.

"So am I. About the ... 'touchy-feely' ... thing."

That startles a bark of laughter out of him. "Oooh," he drawls, mocking her gently, "don't apologize for that. That's my own damned fault."

"How? Because you have scars and sometimes they're not just physical?"

The understanding disarms him and he gives her a sidelong look, obviously wondering just what she knows, what his former self had shared. She's going to leave that particular ball in his court, though, and after a moment, he looks away.

"So," he says finally. "Gotta run back out and save the world?"

_Yes._

"I have a little time. What about you? Gotta run back out and rob someone?"

He looks amused. "I have a little time. I think I mentioned dinner before ... and take-out and illicit hors d'oeuvres don't really count."

"I ... could do that. Where?"

"Thought maybe I'd cook." He smirks at her expression. "What? I managed to surprise you?"

"That is ... actually not something I knew." While Gideon could produce ingredients just as well as finished meals, most of them didn't bother cooking, Kendra and Jax being the occasional exceptions.

She'd never seen a single sign Leonard Snart knew his way around a kitchen, other than as just one more place to lean on everything, snipe at Ray, annoy Rip, hang out with Mick, and flirt with her.

"I'm glad there's something," he says, a touch acerbically. "I figure over-dinner conversation might get a touch awkward at the local sushi place when it consists of 'so, how did you become an assassin?' and 'what's the best thing you ever stole?' "

That makes her laugh, as she's sure it was intended to, and she consents to run to the nearby open-air market to pick up a few things.

It's absurdly domestic, although she's pretty sure he's doing it to get her out of the apartment for a few minutes. She can live with that.

She returns, bag full of produce and French bread in tow, to find him showered and dressed and standing in the tiny kitchen, frowning at a jar of dried rosemary.

"Were you really still asleep when I got here?" she asks, sliding onto one of the stools by the little kitchen bar. He's still barefoot, which is pretty much the most skin she's ever seen out of him and it's unexpectedly endearing in a weird way.

"What, time-traveling assassins are morning people?" he counters. "They don't take naps? I may have been out late last night ... working ..."

"Isn't it kind of a stretch to use that word?"

That gets her one of those piercing gazes.

"That's a matter of ... perception ... assassin."

Their banter apparently transcends things such as timeline or personality resets. She looks away as she smiles.

* * *

He still can't figure out what he's doing here.

It's just that over the past few months, he's decided he doesn't care.

After his outburst last time, he'd moved immediately to sell the townhouse, to forget about once-dead assassins and time travel and get back to the business of thievery. Smaller jobs in Central City the Flash doesn't necessarily twig to, larger jobs in some other nearby locales. Sometimes he works with Lisa ( _goddamn you, Mick_ ), sometimes with a small, hand-selected crew, but mostly, he does his research and planning alone.

At night, he sometimes dreams of blue light.

During the day, it doesn't take long before he realizes he's looking at the calendar, marking off two months. Which is stupid. Beyond stupid. It's not like she's ever going to come back around again, unless it's to kick his ass.

For which he would not blame her.

Still, he realizes he keeps wondering about asking her take on things, planning and strategy and logistics.

They've worked as sort-of-a-team precisely once, but he has this uncomfortable sensation that he simply _knows_ how well they'd mesh, professionally.

Physically... well, that's the other thing he dreams about.

There is something about this woman he seems to know on a level that is beyond logic or reality, and it comes down to embrace it or lose it.

So, he leaves the key and the note at the townhouse.

He does not expect forgiveness.

He fully expects to never see her again.

He does not expect concern, or understanding.

And yet here he is, standing in the one place on earth that's his alone, cooking pasta primavera for this woman who's met his many and varied issues with just that.

And a hefty dose of snark, which makes it all a lot more palatable.

"So, where'd you learn to cook?"

"Taught myself. Someone had to make sure Lisa was eating more than fast food." He frowns at her as she snatches another carrot right out from under the blade of his knife, relying on her reflexes to keep her fingers unbloodied. "That's unnerving."

* * *

The closest she'd ever come to this type of ... ridiculous domesticity ... with his counterpart was their frequent card games, which started in public spaces, moved to places like the hold when Ray got annnoying, and then wound up moving to one of their bedrooms when they both conceded that would be more comfortable.

It took them so long to get to that point she wonders how long it would have taken to get past it ...

But that is the past, and this is now, and she's watching Leonard friggin' Snart sauteing vegetables in his tiny kitchen like some sort of criminal Bobby Flay at this moment.

Life, she reflects, as she eats the carrot, is stranger than even she had thought.

"You pretty much raised her. Your sister."

"Yeah." He frowns at the broccoli, which is apparently not performing to his standards. "Don't know that I did a good job of it, but it was better than the alternative."

She's thought before that if Lewis Snart wasn't dead, she'd find him and do the job herself. She bites down on the carrot with more force than strictly necessary.

He throws her a look at that, but merely says, "Onions or no onions?"

* * *

The pasta is delicious. So is the white wine he opens to go with it.

He asks her, dryly, what time periods she's visited lately as they eat. She informs him, just as dryly, that if she told him, she'd have to kill him.

She asks what he's planning to steal next. He smirks at her.

The wine is very good. They linger over dinner, then move to the sofa.

They open another bottle of wine.

He asks what her favorite time period to visit has been. She tells him, in very general terms, about the Old West.

For the first time, he hesitates, then asks what "he" did there. She hesitates, too, then tells him about bar brawls ... "they were sort of a thing for us" ... and black hats and sharpshooters.

Finally, she says, nonchalantly and peering into her glass of wine, "So ... I know scar tissue when I feel it."

He says nothing, and does not meet her eyes.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"These are," he tells her, the chill back in his tone for the first time since she's met him.

She looks at him for a long moment, then suddenly sits up and drags her shirt over her head, moving just a little to kneel on the sofa next to him.

One eyebrow goes up, but that's the only visible response ... until she turns around and shows him the three starbursts carved in her skin.

She glances back over her shoulder at him. He sits forward a little, frowning, one hand extended involuntarily. He glances at her. She nods permission.

His fingertips traces the marks very, very gently. She catches her lower lip in her teeth at the sensation.

"These ... arrows?"

"Yes," she tells him simply. "The ones that killed me."

A dark look crosses his face. "The Arrow?"

She forgets, sometimes, what he doesn't know. "No. It's a long story."

His fingertips keep stroking the scars, and she shifts back around, leaving his hand to fall to the skin over her hip ... and then rise to trace the entry scars.

"How did you come back?" His voice is so quiet she can barely hear the words.

"Something called the Lazarus Pit." She hesitates. "It wouldn't have worked with ... him ... for a variety of reasons."

His fingers are sweeping back and forth along her abdominal muscles. She catches his hand and gives him a stern look.

"So, we're doing the 'compare the scars' thing, are we?" Sighing, he hesitates a moment, then drags his shirt over his head.

As she expected, he's scarred. The worst two are the jagged slash, thick with scar tissue, along his lower ribs, and a hellish looking one starting at the back of his left wrist and twisting around and down his forearm. But there are others too, from the tiny circles that represent long-healed cigarette burns to the odd, hook-shaped mark on one shoulder.

He examines his own arms clinically. "Broken beer bottle," he says of the forearm. "Lost a lot of blood from that one. The big one was a knife. Kind of surprised I survived it. The others ... they kind of blur after a while."

She looks at him for permission, reads it in his curt nod, then reaches out and traces the hook-shaped scar. He closes his eyes.

Then, she runs her fingertips over the wide scar over his ribs, slowly, tenderly, right down to where it vanishes past the waistband of his jeans. His breath catches and she gives him an arch look, then hesitates.

"Want me to stop?"

"No."

She interlaces the fingers of her left hand with the fingers of his left hand, then lifts her other hand to trace the scar around his wrist and arm ...

... and then she pulls him toward her and puts her mouth on his.

It's different than the last kiss. That was full of adrenaline and impulse, and it'd had a passion all its own. This time, they've both been thinking about it for a while. They're both going into this with their eyes open. This is deeper, and darker, and full of the knowledge that, if you wait, sometimes you lose the things you've been waiting for. So you might as well make a play.

And if the words "one hell of a thief" echo in his mind again, well, he just ignores them.

She keeps pulling until he's pretty much sprawled on top of her, and for a while, they simply make out on the couch like teenagers.

Then he scoops her up, to the sound of her laughter, and carries her into the bedroom.

* * *

Her phone rings after an indeterminate amount of time, waking her out of the soundest sleep she's had in weeks, and she sleepily reaches out for it, feeling around for it before finding it on the floor.

"Uh, Sara? Rip says to ask where you are because we've been waiting at the pick-up point in Star City for three hours."

Crap.

"Actually," she says groggily, rolling over to look at the clock on the night stand, "I'm in Central City. Lost track of time. How long ..."

A hand, very lightly, touches her bare hip. She looks over her shoulder. Smiles.

"You know what? Tell Rip ... and damn him for making you do his dirty work, Ray ... that the world isn't going to end if we don't leave tonight. I'll meet you at the usual Central City spot at 8 ... 9 a.m. tomorrow. Now I'm turning my phone off."

She hangs up on him.

Rolls over, burying herself again in the nest of sheets and the arms of the man beside her, who pulls her close once again.

This is time she's taking for herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: I was so damned pleased I got 'em into bed before that godforsaken finale, but then I didn't post it in time. Sorry about that.


	4. Chapter 4

Rip is the only one who's truly pissy about her tardiness that visit. The others seem amused by the notion their resident assassin is having a fling, or so they surmise. Correctly, she supposes.

Mick keeps giving her odd looks, and she's not sure if he's put the pieces together or if he just finds her general good mood odd. Either way, when they next arrive in 2016, she asks for Central City without a qualm, packs a small bag, smiles at her curious teammates ... and then lays down a path that ensures, as best she can, that she hasn't been followed.

She's barely inside the door of the apartment when his mouth is on hers.

They don't make it to the bedroom.

* * *

"So how long can you stay?" His voice is quiet as she stretches luxuriously next to him, an hour or so later, after they finally _have_ repaired to the bedroom.

"Sixty hours. Monday evening. I should try not to be late this time. R... people were grumpy."

This elicits a smirk. "Tough. You save the world, you deserve some ... down time."

"Ooh, is that what I deserve?" She moves closer, runs a hand along the back of his neck, grinning at him.

"Mmm." He captures her hand, holds it for a moment. "So what's the plan? Stay in bed for 60 hours?"

"Could be persuaded. The bed, the shower, the kitchen counter, the floor again ..."

"Sara!" She laughs as he affects horror. "You realize I'm older than you."

"Yeah, that really slowed you down before." She runs her other hand lightly down his chest. "You're in great shape."

"You know. Crook. Need to be able to defend myself against crazies like The Flash."

"Don't tell me you've tangled with him again."

"No." He's quiet a moment as she runs her hand back up to his neck. "I try not to. It doesn't end well either way. No ..." He puts a hand up as she starts to speak. "Not now, OK?"

She's going to want to have the conversation eventually; he can see it in her eyes.

It would be so much easier to just maintain this as a physical-only relationship. But thoroughly against his will, he's spent the past two months wondering how a cynical crook and a heroic assassin could possibly make things work out as a ... as a ... partnership ...

_... me and you ..._

"All right," she says quietly. "As long as no one gets hurt if at all possible. Right?"

"Right."

_... don't ever let anyone hurt you ..._

Wait a minute.

But she puts her hand against his cheek and guides his eyes back to hers, and the thought, the memory, is gone.

"That includes YOU, got it? I don't want to have to kick The Flash's ass because you did something dumb."

Very, very few people in his life have cared about his welfare. He touches her cheek in return.

"Got it."

* * *

No matter the temptation of 60 hours in bed ... or wherever ... it doesn't actually work out that way. By that evening, they both concede a certain restlessness and, for her, a desire for food that didn't come from Gideon's replicator.

_Replicator? What, like Star Trek?_

_Aww, you really are a geek at heart, aren't you, Snart?_

Both slightly amused by the notion of an actual date, they eventually make it into the shower ... which sets them back another hour or so ... then head out into the somewhat brisk Central City November.

They're not a block away when he leans over a fraction and says under his breath, "You noticed?"

She looks straight ahead. "HmmMm."

"Alley up ahead. On the right."

"OK. I see it. One ... two ..."

They both vanish, and when their tail, hurrying to catch up, rounds the corner, he's slammed into the wall by a furious former assassin who's being cheated out of a non-replicator dinner.

"The _**hell**_ , Mick?"

She throws a warning glance over her shoulder at Snart, who's staring at his former partner with cold eyes, then looks back at her friend and teammate ... and lets him go.

"Sara ..."

"He's my friend, Leonard. You know he's on the ship with the team. He's not going to hurt me." She turns on her teammate. "But I swear to god, Mick, if you don't tell me what you're doing here ..."

"Calm down, Blondie." The big man steps away from the wall, gives Snart a withering look, and Sara a considering one.

"I had Gideon track your phone."

The look of ice she gives him rivals Snart's.

"And why the hell would you think that was a good idea?"

He raises his hands. "Wait. OK? I was concerned ..."

"Mick, I can kick your ass, do you really ..."

"Excuse me? You were worried about her with ..."

She holds a hand up. They both stop mid-sentence.

"Seriously, Mick? Why on earth? It's none of your business."

 _You could have given him a chance, too,_ is the subtext. _You didn't._

_You decided there was nothing left to know._

The other man sighs. Glances at the frozen figure of his former partner standing behind her. Mutters, "I don't think the Snart you knew would want you hanging around with this asshole"

Later, he recollects that Snart actually winces as he says that.

Good call.

She goes from annoyance back to furious in a heartbeat.

"You know _nothing_ , Mick. Nothing! And it's pretty rich, you making a call who is worthy and who ..."

"Sara ... **Sara**!"

She belatedly reads the concern in his demeanor and spins, eyes flying to ...

Snart is shaking his head, looking disoriented. He hasn't fallen, not quite yet, but ...

_... sorry, buddy ..._

_... looking out for me ever since ..._

_... my old friend, please forgive me ..._

"Leonard!" She's at his side in a heartbeat, and though he's struggling with up vs. down and ... past vs. past ... in this moment ... he manages to reach out and grab her hand.

Mick Rory, silent, makes note of this.

"Mick... help..."

He does, of course.

They get him oriented. They get him steady. He glares at both of them, 'cause he's still himself, but he also gathers himself, and breathes, and recovers.

At this point, Sara decides they need a bar.

* * *

There is a jukebox. She doesn't have the heart to look.

"What happened?"

Mick, however, does and is, giving them a moment. They sit next to each other at a booth, shoulders brushing.

"A voice. Mine. Saying things ... I haven't said. Again."

"Hmm."

"Or you telling me I have?"

"I don't know," she reminds him gently. "Couldn't hear it, remember? Things about Mick?"

"Don't know." He takes a sip of his beer, frowning at the bottle. "Why would ... I ... he ... be asking for forgiveness?"

That, his general demeanor says, is not usually a thing he does.

"Is that _really_ something you want me to get in to right now?"

"Probably not." Another swig of beer. "I don't like this."

"You've said. I'm sorry."

"Not your fault."

"It might be, you know. It didn't start until I ... "

That breaks through his funk, and he turns to look at her, _really_ look at her. She's staring at her own drink, with the tiny lines on her brow he's already learned to associate with stress, and grief, and second-guessing her choices.

"Sara. _Sara_."

She glances at him. He's startled to see tears in her eyes for the first time in a while, though he doesn't quite know why. So he says it:

"I'll make that trade." _You, for these ... memories._

The smile, small though it is, makes the words more than worth it.

They're still sitting there, _looking_ at each other, when Mick returns to the table with a bottle and three shot glasses, takes in the scene in front of him and sighs.

"You two. If there's one thing that could make me think that maybe," he says, sitting the glasses down and pouring out three shots of scotch, "just maybe, you are something other than that ice-cold _prick_ I remember, it's you two with the eye sex again."

They both glare at him. He laughs.

"At least you managed to find the balls to make a move faster than you did before."

Sara shakes her head at her. _No_. He glances at her, then at his former partner, and back, and raises an eyebrow.

_Are you telling me he didn't?_

A roll of the eyes. _Not what I meant._

_Then?_

Her expression is direct. _Don't talk about the ship. About_ before _._

For his part, Snart is doing his best to ignore the unfamiliar curl of jealousy brought on by the wordless communication between his former partner and his ... his ... well, lover, he supposes. He sits back in the booth and eyes them both.

When Mick first found him in 2016 Central City with that crazy story about them both going, after all, on that bullshit mission with the Brit in the brown coat, he'd _known_ the other man was out of his mind. He didn't go. End of story. Mick had vanished on him, leaving him without his most valued cohort in crime, but he'd managed, although he was still pissed off about it.

But. Here is Sara. A very changed Mick, who's obviously worked with her for months. Flashes of things he doesn't remember doing, or saying, or feeling.

It seems to be true, after all: He'd gone. He had, apparently, fallen in ... something ... with one Sara Lance. He'd done something for which he had to ask Mick's forgiveness. They'd worked together as a team. And as far as they knew, he'd died.

Finally, he truly accepts it. And it's all just a little too much.

"I need some air."

"Company?"

He shakes his head at her query, gives her a small smile to let her know he's OK, and stuffing his hands in his pockets, heads for the door.

Behind him, the two at the table watch him go.

"Blondie? What's going on?"

She turns the silver pinkie ring around and around on her finger, then admits, "He's ... remembering."

Silence. She glances at him, and sees the stoic expression he gets when he's holding things in. She knows it well by now.

"He can't be. Gideon said it was impossible."

"Gideon also said there's no evidence of anything quite like this happening before. And no one knows what effects the Oculus explosion could have."

"Sara, I know you want him to be ..." A rare use of her given name.

"He remembered something I said to him. Not long before he ... died. There's no way he should have known that, Mick. And you've said it yourself, he's not someone who lets people in, but ..."

"You're already sleeping together." He picks up the shot, puts it down. "Don't give me the 'kill you with my pinkie' look, Lance, I'm not judging. Now. So there's something there that ... remembers. What?"

"Just ... flashes. Words. About ... us. And in the alley, I think, about you." She holds up a hand. "He's not the same person. I know that. But there's something weird going on, OK? Just don't press it."

"Mmm. OK." He clinks the edge of his shot against hers. "I'm sorry I tracked your phone, but ..."

"Yeah, well, don't do it again." Smiling, she drinks, then refills both shots.

"You're actually sort of happy with that asshole, aren't you?"

She starts to say something flippant about mind-blowing sex, just to mess with him, but that's not fair. (Although true.) But this is Mick, this is the closest thing she has ever had to a brother, and so she gives the question the consideration it is due.

"I think I'm enjoying myself," she says finally. "And I care about him. I want it to continue. So, yes ... happy. Long-term ... I don't know. I haven't thought about that kind of thing in a very long time."

"You going to leave the team?" The question is quiet and nonjudgmental.

"I ... haven't really thought about it." But she is now. "No. I don't know. Not yet."

"He's still a crook, cop's daughter."

"I know."

The door opens and closes, and a few moments later, he slides back into the booth next to her, eyeing them with the expression of a man who knows perfectly well he's been talked about.

But he doesn't comment on it.

Instead he picks up a shot. "Scotch, Mick?" The look is sly. "Really?"

The other man grunts. Sara looks inquisitive. "Is this something I want to know about?"

"Mick does not, historically, do well with scotch."

"He doesn't do well with moonshine, either."

"Hey! I don't tattle on you two."

"No, you're still making up for interrupting our dinner plans." Sara holds up her shot glass, then downs its contents, leading the other two to follow suit.

Mick refills them. "And that's just weird."

"What is?" Sara downs hers again, making him throw her a dirty look and do the same.

"You ... two. Dinner plans. Domestic shit. It was weird enough watching you hover around each other on the ship. This is weirder."

The scotch has already set in. She opens her mouth to correct Mick, to remind him _again_ to leave it be ... and stops at a quick head shake from Snart.

Well. It's his life. Literally.

She refills the shots again. And again.

He and Mick get into a heated if ultimately good-natured argument about some past job and what caused it to go south. With every drawled jibe and heated retort ... and additional shot ... the lines keep blurring. The man who was. The man who is.

She watches them both, smiling. As the booze keeps flowing, too, the man next to her relaxes just a touch more, too, though she's pretty sure that's to do with the regained level of communion with his oldest friend.

Still. She puts a hand on his leg, smiling when he doesn't twitch, then moves the hand to twine her fingers with his on top of the table. He regards their hands thoughtfully, then her, but doesn't pull away.

She looks across the table at Mick ... who has the oddest expression on his face.

"Time wants to happen," he mutters.

She can see Leonard visibly restrain himself from asking. She'll do no such thing. Later.

For now, she just leans over and kisses him on the cheek, then hops up and heads for the jukebox.

"I want to dance!" she calls back over her shoulder.

* * *

"Well, so much for that bar," he says with a sigh as they stand outside in the chilly night, having been ousted under threat of police attention, which none of them particularly want at the moment. That, after they've collectively kicked the asses of the resident biker gang, the leader of which had taken exception to Sara being, well, Sara.

"That. Was. Awesome. That was the '70s all over again. Did I tell you about the '70s, Snart?"

"Yes, Mick. Several times."

She has to smile at the long-suffering tone. She did not manage to completely drink Mick under the table this time, but he's not steady at all, and he keeps taking mental detours down memory lane.

"I should have guessed you were going to have a thing for Blondie back then. I don't think I've ever seen that particular look on your face before. Too bad they didn't have Captain and Tennille on the 'box here ..."

"Right. 'Love Will Keep Us Together.' We get it."

Unless she's missed something, Mick hadn't mentioned the name of the song. She shoots him a look, but he's still on his detour.

"Right. Should've known. And then we stole that asshole's car ..."

She knows what's coming and no one needs to explain Chronos right now. "Easy, big guy. Sometime when you're not three sheets to the wind." To Leonard: "We need to either get him back to the ship ... or let him stay with you. Us."

He's silent. She has an inkling of what he's thinking. He may be handling all this time nonsense better than before, but he's not ready to encounter the time ship ... not yet. But it hasn't escaped her notice that Mick didn't know about the apartment.

She's not sure she blames him. The Mick she first met on the Waverider might have burned down that fine old building in a fit of pique, or just to watch the flames.

But this is a very different man.

She can see him come to that decision himself as, with a sigh, he offers his former partner a shoulder to lean on.

"The couch it is."

* * *

Mick pretty much passes out as soon as his head hits the cushions. Sara pulls his shoes off as the owner of the couch in question looks at the intruder in his sanctuary with a sigh. "Does this mean we have to behave ourselves?"

"Nope." Giving him a wicked look, she grabs his hand and starts towing him toward the bedroom. "As far as I'm concerned, he still deserves some payback for tracking my phone. If we wake him up, that's _his_ problem."

* * *

"All right, I get it. But did you have to be quite so ... enthusiastic?"

The next morning, she walks her somewhat hungover current teammate back to the ship, Snart having rejected the chance to see the Waverider yet again. She cannot, really, blame him. He's had enough to digest.

"Yep."

"I could have lived another 100 lifetimes without hearing that."

"Tough."

They pause, finally, on the outskirts of the field where the cloaked Waverider is usually parked in Central City, and she leans over to give her friend a hug. He pats her on the back gruffly.

"Look, I don't know what's going on there. It still doesn't seem like it's possible. But like you said, it's a unique situation. I'll consult with Gideon some more." Mick holds up a hand. "Not Rip. Not yet."

"Don't tell the others. I mean ... I don't think he can handle Ray. Yet. If at all."

That earns a laugh. "Gotcha. Take care, birdie. Be on time tomorrow. Rip is too annoying when you're not."

"Well, OK. For you." She hesitates. "What did you mean yesterday? 'Time wants to happen?' Nothing ... really had a chance to happen, before."

"Right. But maybe it was supposed to."

* * *

"Snart! Finally. So you're in for the job? We can't pull it off without you, old man."

He's been putting off this phone call too long, using Sara's impending return as the yardstick. After she leaves again, he'll make the decision, he's told himself. He just needs a little more time to consider. Perhaps to make a counter-offer.

But thoughts chasing him down in the middle of the night, as she's sound asleep curled up next to him and after Mick's staunch insistence that he has, indeed, been a hero, won't let him be.

"I'm not in. Find someone else."

"Come on! You're the detail guy. This is _too_ big for just a 'big picture' sort of person like me. I need you in on it."

At this stage of his ... career ... he almost always works alone or close to it. He and he alone directs the jobs he takes on. But once in a great while, there's a bigger fish (there's always a bigger fish somewhere) and an offer it might be dangerous to refuse.

This is one of them. And he's refusing.

"There are too many variables. Too many things to go wrong. Too much chance something goes south."

"Ehh, well, you can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, am I right? Acceptable risk."

"I'm not in for that."

The other man's voice hardens. "What's the matter, Snart? You getting soft? This is a really, _really_ big score."

"Soft" can be a death sentence when you play this sort of game. It makes his tone sharp. "No, I'm realistic. I'm not in, Mackenzie. Find someone else."

He hangs up.

_... chosen ..._

But.

He's not so foolish as to think the job won't go on without him. It will. And now, chances are, there won't be anyone with any scruples whatsoever directing the plan.

He hesitates a long moment, then, with a mental sigh, writes out a quick note, then bundles it up with the printouts of the blueprints Mac had sent over. An anonymous message to one Barry Allen, care of S.T.A.R. Labs. Then he can wash his hands of it.

He's not a hero. He's not sure he could ever manage that.

But he'll be damned if he'll play the villain.

Not with Sara Lance to lose.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to LarielRomeniel for beta-ing!

They arrive a little early in January 2017, thanks to variables that only Rip and probably Mick understand for sure.

He's not at the apartment.

She waits a day. He doesn't return.

On the surface, there's nothing whatsoever out of place.

But the very air feels ... off. And she can't say why, but every instinct is screaming at her that something has gone wrong. That this, perhaps, is what _Alexa_ means.

She calls Mick.

He sighs across the line. "You know, Blondie, he might just decided it was all too much ..."

"No. That's not it. I know what you're thinking, Mick, but there's something wrong here. Really wrong. Please help me find him."

* * *

"Allen. It's Mick Rory."

Silence on the other end of the line. Then: "And how did you get this number?"

A snort is his only response to that question. "Listen, kid. You didn't tangle with Snart recently, did you? Let's just say he's not somewhere I'm pretty sure he'd want to be right now. Concerned something might have happened."

"No? I mean, no, he's been really quiet lately." Concern catches up to his bafflement over this new, serious version of the man he remembers as a rogue pyromaniac. "Want me to help you look?"

"Just keep an an eye out."

"Wait ... wait." Allen's voice is suddenly deadly serious. "About two months ago, I received some blueprints and a message saying there was a heist being planned for just this past weekend, when the this big antique jewelry exhibit was moved from a museum in Star City to one down south ... and that it could get messy on the way through Central City. Seemed like someone on the inside might have sent them. You ... don't think Snart might have done that, do you? It occurred to me at the time, but ..."

"Might be." He's quiet a moment. "Job didn't go down?"

"We moved the route last minute, had them up security, I provided an escort ... the exhibit's safe and sound in its new home."

"Hmm. Who was the boss on that, any idea?"

"Someone named Mackenzie Fain, is what I heard."

And just like that, he knows that Sara is right. Something very, very bad has happened. "Snart hates that rat bastard. And if he blew him in to you and Fain found out ..."

"I'll go look at any of his haunts I know of." A pause. "Rory? What's going on with you guys?"

"Believe it or not, Allen, one of these days I'll buy you a beer and tell you about it."

* * *

**About 24 hours earlier**

Snart learns about the hit that'd been ordered on him just a little too late, through a belated message from a former informant who'd waffled over it until deciding to spill.

Now, Mackenzie would realistically still be pissed at him for bailing on the job, but a hit ... a hit is above and beyond. A hit means Mac either thinks or knows that he'd been actively ratted out to Central City's resident hero.

There are further implications to that, and none of them are good. But they're not his priority right now. The smart thing would be to skip town and go to ground somewhere for a while, after warning Lisa to remain where she is in National City for a bit ... and trying to leave some sort of message for Sara.

His pride rebels at that. This is **his** city, goddamn it.

His second inclination, once upon a time, would be to corral Mick and go hunting for the bastard himself. That's what he'd like to do, but not without backup.

He wonders, for a moment, if the changed and time-traveling Mick Rory he now knows would be amenable to such a thing. And a certain lovely, deadly assassin, too. They'd make one hell of a team ...

But in the end, he doesn't get a chance to ask.

He lets himself in to the converted warehouse he's considering using as a temporary base ... and walks right into an ambush.

Whoever the hitter is, the guy is good enough to get into the building and lie in wait without leaving any sign. Not good enough, though, because his target has just enough warning to fling himself to the side, cold gun out and firing. He's not quite quick enough, and one bullet grazes his left shoulder while another smacks into his right thigh with an impact that's more force than pain at this point. His aim is better; the hitter is now an ice sculpture.

He hits the floor in a fall that's not as controlled as it should have been and **there's** the pain, blossoming from his leg and in a lesser extent from his arm. He hisses, fighting the urge to simply curl into a ball and shake, but uses the adrenaline the wounds trigger to scramble down the hallway and into the safe room, door thrown shut and locked behind him.

His leg is bleeding freely and he can feel the reaction starting to set in. Grimacing, he grabs a threadbare cushion off one of the chairs and the first-aid kit from a shelf, collapsing onto the battered sofa Mick once dragged off someone's curb and stuffing the cushion against the wound in his leg.

He's not sure why the hitter used smaller arms instead of going full sniper, but he's grateful. Either way, if he'd been hit in the femoral artery, he'd already be dead. Likewise if the ice cube back there had had any backup.

Still, he needs medical attention and knows it, also knows that trying to drag his sorry, bleeding ass back out into the Central City night will be asking for someone else to take a potshot at him. He has some favors he can trade on, although this thing with Mac makes everything far more dangerous ... and if worse comes to worse, he can remind Barry Allen that someone clued him into that ill-fated heist to begin with.

Although he mentally sighs about that last option.

Right elbow still applying pressure to the cushion, he fumbles with his jacket, starting to get just a little light-headed from pain as he spills the phone from his pocket onto the sofa.

And any luck he's had has apparently run out.

Apparently when he'd hit the ground, his phone had, too.

Well. First things first.

* * *

**Present time**

They've been looking for a while when Mick thinks of the warehouse, which had been more of his own personal hidey hole than Snart's.

They know pretty much immediately they've got the right place. The frostbitten corpse in a pool of water would have to be a sign ... in a manner of speaking.

She forgets it immediately, however, scanning the cavernous room, zeroing in on the corridor leading off to the side.

There ... a dried, sizable splatter, the impression of a body hitting the floor, a trail leading down the hall. She runs, but the door at the end is locked.

"Mick!"

With some foresight ... and hoping some part of this Snart had continued to trust him after he'd "vanished," he's brought a ring of keys from his Central City days. It takes a few minutes, but then they're in.

A limp form is semi-propped up on a battered old sofa, cold gun at his hand, eyes closed, features lax.

Heart in her mouth, she scrambles for a pulse. "He's alive. God, Mick, he's burning up."

The clumsy bandage on his leg is dark, but it's older blood. Same with the smaller one on his shoulder.

"Take him to the hospital, he'll be arrested. And between blood loss and infection, it still might not be enough." Her eyes are on his, resolute. "Mick, it has to be the Waverider."

He doesn't even try to argue.

* * *

She's more than prepared to run interference, but Mick carries him down the ship's corridors and into the medbay surgical suite without incident, then squeezes her shoulder and vanishes to head any ... complications ... off at the pass.

"Gideon! Emergency!"

Scans immediately start running in the suite, but there's actually a long pause before the AI, in as much a tone of surprise as an AI ever gets, says "Mr. Snart ..."

The AI interrupts her, sounding a little prim. "Diagnosis in progress."

There's nothing to do but pace. She knows the ship's medical technology can heal anything short of catastrophic injury, but ...

Not now. Not so soon after finding him again, after finding _him_ again.

Finally, Gideon speaks: "Mr. Snart is suffering from moderate blood loss, as well as septicemia, some nerve damage, and bone chips and foreign matter in the leg wound."

" _And_?"

"The wound has been cleaned and the healing process has begun, as has a full course of antibiotics. Prognosis shows a 92 percent chance of a full recovery, although there is a small chance of some nerve damage."

And just like that, she feels like a marionette whose strings have been cut. She sags back into a chair, a feeling that is, as far as she's concerned, a bit too overwhelming to even be called relief coursing through her.

"What now? How long should he stay here?"

"He should stay in isolation a bit longer, until the wounds are verified stable and there is further satisfactory progress against the infection. Perhaps an hour. Given that, a day or two in the medbay and perhaps one more during which he can be monitored."

"So, on the ship."

Gideon sounds ... reluctant. "That would be best."

She takes the first deep breath it feels she's taken in hours.

"How is he?"

She turns her head, just a little, to see Mick standing just inside the doorway, repeats what Gideon has told her. She sees his shoulders relax, too, just a fraction.

"Well, then, he's staying," he rumbles, "at least until then. Rip can deal."

"He wasn't happy." It's not quite a question.

"No. Timeline, yadda yadda, mission, mutter mutter. Actually seemed to be suggesting we should have just let things happen."

If she wasn't so tired ... "Tell me you kicked his ass."

"Nope. Didn't need to. Ray, of all people, let him have it." His smirk is pure satisfaction, with an edge of surprise. "Followed by Stein and Jax. And the new folks, well ... let's just say it got them thinking, too."

"Good for them" She closes her eyes. "So the cat's out of the bag."

"Well. That we've been keeping in contact with him, sort of. Not about you two, not about the 'memories.' " He pauses. "They're going to want to see him."

"I think that's going to have to be up to him, don't you?"

He concedes. "Go get some rest, Sara. I'll stand watch."

"Thanks. But no."

* * *

Gideon releases him from isolation two hours later, with a warning that he'll probably be unconscious for a while yet. She sits and watches, sometimes dozing herself, as she waits.

Mick must have appealed to the others, because no one bothers her. The time with her thoughts is both a blessing and a curse.

For the first time in a while, she's seriously wondering what the future might hold. And not in a "saving it" sort of manner, either.

His brow creases at one point, lines between his eyes as if in anger or pain, and she sits up to reach for his hand.

It doesn't help. His mouth is a twisted line, and he moves his head from side to side restlessly.

"Gideon ... what ... what is he dreaming about?"

There is a pause, a very long pause.

And then, the AI says, in a voice that is soft and impossibly disbelieving: "Mr. Snart is dreaming of the Occulus."

For a moment, she thinks she misheard.

"So, somehow, this is ..."

"This is not physically the Mr. Snart who traveled on board the Waverider before." Gideon's voice is a little more definite on this one.

"How do you know?"

"His right hand is not a reconstruction."

She should have recognized that, she thinks, recalling the lack of childhood scars on the regenerated hand, and how the lack of callus had bothered him once.

"How is that possible?"

Another long, long pause.

"Ms. Lance, I am programmed with a great deal of temporal, scientific, and medical information," says the AI, finally. "But I believe the only answer I have to that comes from another store of knowledge whatsoever.

" To paraphrase: There are more things in heaven and earth ... than are dreamt of in our philosophies ..."

* * *

Regaining consciousness is like swimming upward through that blue light.

When he finally blinks, he's somehow unsurprised to be staring up at a metallic ceiling, in a seemingly precarious sort of bed. Medbay? How did he ...?

And he blinks again, and it's sliding away.

Gone.

"Where...?"

His voice is a rasp. There's a foggy, somewhat distant pain in his thigh and his shoulder, but his head is clearing rapidly, and he turns his head to see Sara sitting at the bedside.

"You idiot," she greets him. "What were you thinking?"

The ambush. His injuries. Cleaning the wounds as best he could and waiting a bit to venture out for help ... "What happened?"

"You tell me. We found you burning up from infection and unconscious from blood loss. Gideon said your impromptu patch job was pretty good, but there were bullet fragments and debris in there; the infection set in pretty fast."

Memory is slowly trickling back. "There was a hit ... I was going to lay low ... didn't want to risk arrest ..."

"Well, you risked dying alone. Again." She looks incredibly pissed off, but a tear trickles down her cheek. She doesn't even seem to realize it's there. "We got back a little early. Do you realize that if we'd been on time, we'd have found a corpse, if we'd found anything? And if I hadn't thought ... hadn't called Mick and said ... we might not even have been looking?"

There's more than one timeline feeding into her anger and grief here, and he's profoundly uncomfortable with it. He's slowly been getting accustomed to ... emotion ... with this woman, and this is too much, too fast.

"Where the hell am I, anyway?"

"The ship. It was the only way..."

"GodDAMN it!" He's not ... he doesn't ... he isn't ready ...

Her eyes narrow. In his panic and confusion, he's crossed a line he shouldn't have. "Piss off, Snart."

She rises and storms out the door, leaving him unsettled and angry and confused without completely knowing why.

A few moments later, Mick saunters in, leaning against the edge of the door and regarding him disapprovingly.

"Fucked that up, didn't you?"

"Not you, too."

"Yes, me too. She hasn't left this room since we dragged you in here looking half-dead, pissing off the captain ..."

He snorts. Mick smirks in spite of himself.

"... and we're probably going to be catching grief for it for some time. And she invoked _Alexa_ , do you know that? Sixth sense. I didn't think much of it at first, but she knew something was wrong. And now you're going to be an ass about it? Yeah, buddy. You fucked up."

He's silent a long moment. Then: "Guilty."

"Well. Apologize. She'll forgive you. I think." The other man moves closer. "Why the hell didn't you get your ass to a clinic or something? If you'd been arrested, we'd get you out; you have to know that."

He opens his mouth. Shuts it.

"You know what I think, Snart?"

"I think you're going to tell me anyway."

"I think you're falling for a cop's daughter and you don't want to push your luck. I think you turned Mac down and then blew him in to the Flash for the same reason ..."

"He had no good plan; that whole thing had the potential to be a bloodbath. Central City would have been a nightmare for anyone trying to pull a decent job for months ..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm sure that's all true. But tell me this. Can you really say you didn't look at that whole situation and do what you did because of her?"

Silence is the only response.

* * *

Eventually, Gideon ... the AI's even voice seems both familiar and not, and that's unnerving, too ... allows him to sit up a bit more and eat something. He's contemplating what seems to be Jell-O when she walks back in, stops not a foot from the door, and folds her arms.

"Mick said you wanted to grovel."

"Mick is full of shit."

She waits.

"And Mick is, occasionally, right." He sighs. "I'm sorry. I wasn't ... I wasn't ready to come here."

"Hmm." She relaxes in some small way, drawing closer. "I can understand that. But ..."

"Yeah. I get it." He meets her eyes, repeats, "I'm sorry. Thank you."

"You're welcome." She reaches out and takes his right hand, rubbing her thumb over a few of its scars. "You'll be stuck here a few days. Medbay maybe one more, then just stick around for monitoring a day or two more. Future medical technology is awesome, but not infallible. The infection could come back, and since it's already healing over ..."

"Got it."

The moment lengthens, but it's not an uncomfortable one.

"There are some people here who'd sort of like to see you," she says, finally. "People who knew ... you. But that's your decision."

Her words bring up uncomfortable sort-of memories, words that might be names. Jax. Gray. Boy Scout? "I'll think about it."

"That's all we ask." She lets go with some reluctance. "I have a couple things to take care of. I'll be back."

* * *

"Mick? Where are you going?" Sara's waiting for him near the hatch. It's said in the tone of a question that isn't, really.

"Out."

"With the heat gun. Mmmhmm."

"Nothing you want to be involved with, Blondie."

"Oh, I think it's exactly what I want to be involved with."

He turns and regards her, blinking a bit when he realizes she's all in black, not street clothes or her White Canary leathers. Her face is set, and her eyes ...

Her eyes are furious.

"OK."

* * *

"Rory?"

"Allen."

"This is the only time I've ever ask about it. But do you have any idea who beat the shit out of Mackenzie Fain ... maybe singed him a little, too ... and then dumped him in the parking lot at the CCPD last night?"

"No idea."

"OK, then."

* * *

He's bored out of his mind by the time Gideon clears him to move out of the medbay, even with the reading material the AI helpfully provides. So bored that, against his better judgment, he lets Sara "introduce" him to those she says are his former teammates.

"Shit, Snart, it really _is_ you."

"Jefferson!"

He regards the kid, whose grin wavers just a bit at the complete lack of recognition on his face, and then the older man who accompanies him. Jefferson Jackson, Sara's told him. Martin Stein. _Firestorm_.

He apparently lived and worked with these people for months. The ephemeral and fragmented nature of these ... memories ... he's getting is really starting to piss him off.

"So they tell me." His eyes narrow. "Jax. You flew the ship when ..."

"The emerald."

"Right."

The silence has begun to get a little too long when the older man decides to break in.

"Mr. Snart. It is ... good ... to see you recovering. Sara says that you may be remembering your time on the Waverider?" He hesitates. "In a manner of speaking?"

Something prods him to give the man the truth. "If you can remember something that apparently never actually happened," he drawls, "then I suppose I'm doing it. Did we play cards once? Maybe in some sort of ... 'Tombstone' scenario?"

"Astonishing."

* * *

"Ray is ... well, let's call him ..."

"A Boy Scout."

"Yes."

The man has the sort of face that should never be allowed anywhere near a poker game. He blinks twice at the sight of the former teammate - who's currently pursuing Sara's room, where he's moved after leaving the medbay - then beams. There's really no other word for it.

"Well. Welcome to the 'I died, I'm still here' club."

Snart blinks back at him, then looks at Sara ... who's trying not to laugh.

"OooK," he drawls. "And what do you mean by that, Raymond?"

"Um. Well. I mean, you ... died. And ..."

"Still here. Got it. Never went anywhere, from where I'm standing. You?"

"Well. Everyone _thinks_ I'm dead... "

"And this is the same how?"

"We all thought you were dead."

"I was. I'm told. You're just faking. I don't think we have to let you in the club."

Silence.

"I'm being messed with, aren't I? I'm being messed with." Ray looks plaintively at Sara. "Are you sure this isn't the exact same Snart?"

She isn't willing to tell anyone else what Gideon told her the dream, not yet. "Gideon is."

"Oh. You're still an asshole," he tells the surprisingly not-dead crook.

"Yup."

The smile they trade surprises both of them, if not Sara. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

Gideon clears him to leave the next morning, after one more scan and round of antibiotics. Sara silently thanks the AI. She'd been prepared to ask Gideon to lie.

That night, they make love in her room on the Waverider, exorcising some old ghosts, some might-have-beens and should-have-saids. She's not sure he fully understands the tears in her eyes at one point, but she's also not sure he doesn't.

Afterward, they lie next to each other, his hand trailing slowly across her hip, her hand on the faint, new scar on his thigh.

"You'll be heading back out, then." His voice is quiet.

"Yes. Immediately." They lie in silence a moment. "It's ... we've been putting out fires, here and there, but we're going to be taking the fight where it needs to go, now. I don't know if we'll be back in two months. Time gets funny."

"Just come back." He doesn't tell her he's thought about asking to go with them. Something, the part of him that dreams of blue light, tells him that's just not the right thing to do now.

"I'll do my best. Don't get shot again, OK?"

"I'll do my best."

He moves to pull her closer, but she puts a hand on his chest to stop him, takes a deep breath.

She's tired of regrets. She's tired of should-have-saids.

"So ... I've been thinking about what the future might hold for me ... and you ... and me and you ..."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to LarielRomeniel for beta-ing!

Two months come and two months go.

The Waverider doesn't return.

He keeps her words in mind, but they don't make it that much easier. There are days he's kicking himself for this ... connection, for putting himself in a position where he can be hurt. Where he cares. Where he might be considering huge changes in his life.

And yet, he can't regret it.

Two months become three.

The Waverider doesn't arrive. But one day, something else does.

He stands in the apartment and watches the newscast, the reporter and cameraman risking their lives to show the phalanx of ... are they robots? ... menacing downtown Central City, and apparently Star City too, from reports.

He can hear the explosions in the distance. Things are starting to burn, and the images raise a memory, of standing on a rooftop while a man from the future showed them a world in flames and asked them to help save it.

He did. And he didn't.

Irritated by the doubled memories, he paces, occasionally glancing out the window.

Then he grabs the goggles, the parka, the gun, and heads out the door.

* * *

The CCPD is out in force, but they're not prepared for this. How could they be? This is worse than the so-called metapocalypse; these things aren't flesh and bone, and small arms fire means nothing to them. In the end, all most of the officers can do is see to evacuations while a small percentage of SWAT forces take on the foe.

And the Flash? Well, the Flash has his hands full. There's a red-and-gold streak zipping around, leaving metal wrecks in its wake, but it's not enough, it will not be enough, and even the Flash knows it.

But what else can he do?

Cisco's directing him remotely to the worse spots, increasingly frantic; they're just barely holding back the tide. And then:

"Oh, crap. Oh, crap. Barry, we have the cold gun signature at Howard and Main!"

"Snart? Seriously? In the middle of this?" He actually skids to a halt. "Looting's not his style..."

"Yeah, well, maybe he's branching out, 'cause it's there. Let me get cameras on ..." Cisco stops mid-sentence. "Oh. Uh. Barry, I may have made an error ..."

"Yeah, I can see that."

In the few seconds it's taken him to get to the intersection, their Captain Cold has apparently been hard at work. There's a row of robots frozen to the ground - they shatter nicely - as well as a scattering of wrecks that had apparently been iced over in mid-air. A few officers are leading people out of a building with obvious burn marks around the entryway, as well as just as obvious thawing ice around those marks.

He's taking in this surprising sight when the distinctive whine of the cold gun makes him spin ... just in time to see Leonard Snart point the gun at him in what seems to be old reflex, then purposefully bring it back to his shoulder.

Or maybe it's a warning. No way to know for sure.

"What brings this on?" Barry finally speaks. "Finally decided you wanted that hero card?"

The comment just earns a smirk. "I've told you. _My_ city. No one gets to burn it down around me, not even Mick."

"Uh huh. No one gets to rob it anymore but you either? Not that I've seen you doing that much lately. What brought this on?"

Snart's mouth bends in what might almost be a smile, but he doesn't otherwise respond.

The two men regard each other in the battered center of their city, finally looking away as a racket to the right heralds the arrival of more trouble.

"I'll set 'em up," Snart says, raising his gun. "You knock 'em down."

* * *

As soon as the Waverider crew realizes what the rogue Time Master they've been chasing down has done, sending modified A.T.O.M. robots to their home cities and home time, Rip has nearly has a mutiny on his hands. It's Mick, surprisingly or not, who finally intervenes and suggests that Ray - as the most likely to find a way to deprogram the things from 2016 - and someone else go represent the team while the rest carry on in their search, which has been harrowing and complicated enough to result in a multitude of repairs to the ship and delayed visits home.

To no one's surprise, Sara insists that she'll go to Central City. Her particular abilities, she says, are better suited to outright mayhem, after all. Stein, Jax, and Mick himself are useful on the ship for other reasons than their physical abilities, as are the others.

No one is really fooled, least of all Rip, but he yields to the inevitable. The White Canary hurtles off the cloaked Waverider even as the ship lifts off again for Star City, where Ray intends to recruit Felicity for his effort. She rolls and comes up running for city center, heading right for the heart of the action.

She's greeted by a sight she hadn't even admitted she'd hoped for: A tall figure in a blue parka, wielding a weapon spitting a blue-white blast at the invaders, as a reddish blur careens around the perimeter, corralling the latest wave and occasionally smashing through the frozen remnants.

"I don't know that I can be a hero," he'd told her.

 _Bullshit_ , she thinks with a smile.

She uses a streak of ice on the ground for a more-or-less controlled slide into a group of foes, spinning to a halt and laying about with her staff.

And then there's someone fighting at her shoulder, guarding her back, freezing the attackers so her own attack can follow up with a resounding shatter.

The sensation of fighting with him again is so very viscerally satisfying that she laughs right out loud. Pivoting with him, she spies a smile on his face that tells her he's feeling at least an echo of the same.

And when there's a break in the battle, when the current wave is done, she walks right over to him, goes right up on her toes and kisses him on the mouth.

After a moment's surprise, he kisses her back, right out there in the street, his free arm wrapping around her waist to pull her closer.

When they break apart, they're both smiling.

"As always in the nick of time," he comments.

"Seemed like you had it pretty much under control."

A tiny noise distracts them both, and they turn in glaring semi-unison to look at Barry Allen, who's staring at them with his mouth open.

"Um," he says, finally. "Hi." Then to thin air: "Stop screaming at me; I _know_ who she is." He taps what appears to be a comm unit, then looks back at them.

"Hi," he says again. "Sara Lance? I know ... the Arrow. And I knew your sister. I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you."

His eyes flick back to Snart. "I, uh, didn't realize you two knew each other."

"It's a very long story," Sara assures him. "But for now ..."

They're interrupted by an approaching roar, and all three tense for battle. But as they turn to face the approaching wave, something happens.

One robot drops out of the sky, landing on its ground-based brethren. Then another. And then they're falling like leaves, crashing into the mercifully empty streets, doing damage only to abandoned vehicles and mailboxes and other inanimate objects.

After the last crash, there's silence. And then, in the distance, sirens start to wail.

Sara lets out a long sigh. "Good job, Ray."

"The Boy Scout's here?" Snart asked.

"In Star City," Sara confirmed. "He wanted to make use of Felicity's know-how and tech to bring these things down; said if anyone could help, she could."

"None of us are ever, ever allowed to tell Cisco that," Barry Allen tells them solemnly, before tapping his comm unit again. "Yeah, Cisco? No, I'm not sure what happened ..."

Forgotten for the moment, the other two turn back to each other. She leans into his shoulder; he hesitates a bare moment, then puts his arm back around her. There are people filtering back out into the streets now; if she wants to be seen like this in the company of "Captain Cold," that's up to her.

"I'm sorry I wasn't back sooner," she says. "There's been ... a lot going on."

"I can see that. This ... incident ... have something to do with that?"

"A distraction. An effective one, apparently." Another sigh. "I don't know when the Waverider is going to be back. I can hope they'll just be able to find and take care of this guy while we're here, but ... "

A long pause.

Greatly daring, he says, "Sounds like the shiny is wearing off the idea of time travel. Maybe you'd just like to stay put for a while; find a new home base."

She turns her head against his shoulder to look into his eyes; he meets hers with a bit of trepidation. The comment touches on things they've only just discussed, during her last visit, lying in her bunk on the Waverider and finally, daring to wonder aloud what the future might hold for a crook and an assassin, together.

But there's no censure in her eyes. She just says, "Maybe."

* * *

**January 2017, the Waverider, parked in Central City**

_"You could come with us."_

_"I don't take orders real well."_

_A laugh. "I know. Me neither. That's why we're needed: You, me, Mick. Someone needs to take the piss out of Rip from time to time. Or all the time ..."_

_"Or you could stay in Central City."_

_She rolls up on an elbow, looks at him. He'd be annoyed that she's so surprised by the notion, but he knows there are other factors coming into play here: The months on this ship, together, that he still doesn't fully remember, the way she doesn't feel that she, a resurrected former assassin, fits in any sort of so-called "real life."_

_"I don't know," she says, then echoes his thoughts. "I don't know where I'd fit in there. And I might not be a very good hero, Leonard, but I'm not going to be a crook."_

_"I know." He doesn't say more than that. He's still thinking over the matter himself._

_She doesn't push at it._

_"I suppose the important thing," she says finally, "is that I just wonder if you want to try this together. Somehow."_

_"This?"_

_"Life."_

_A long moment's silence._

_Then: "Yeah."_

* * *

**Back to April 2017**

Barry Allen has been clearing his throat quite a while, really - and wondering how much longer he has to keep it up - when the pair finally stop gazing into each other's eyes and glare at him instead.

"So," he says, "we sort of need to know a little more about what happened here; there are going to be a lot of questions. _A lot_. Can we get a bit of a debriefing back at the labs? Um ... you too, Snart. If you want."

The pair exchange a _look_ , and he has the sudden, horrifying thought that S.T.A.R. Labs is close to the last place they want to go, that the first place on the list is somewhere with a bed and a locking door...

"I'd like to meet Cisco," Sara Lance says finally. "And I can tell you a little bit about what's going on, because you should probably know. But please tell me you have a shower there."

His smile is a little relieved. "I can tell you that."

* * *

This has been a very, very, **very** strange day, Barry Allen thinks to himself as he watches his friends and the visitors in S.T.A.R. Labs. And the flying robots had only been half of it.

Cisco had reacted with utter fanboy glee at the sight of Sara Lance in the White Canary outfit he made for her at her sister's behest ... then sincere condolences for that loss, more than a year ago, but still fresh in all their minds.

But while Sara is unquestionably a welcome guest in the lab, her companion is arguably drawing more attention.

Leonard Snart, cold gun at his hip, is leaning against the wall like he's keeping it from falling over. His eyes rarely leave Sara Lance, but every once in a while, he flicks a glance over to Barry, a sardonic smile on his face.

 _You know you should arrest me_ , the expression says. _But I fought with you today, and the Canary here seems to think I'm ... all right. So what are you going to do about it?_

The Canary in question is not unaware of all these undercurrents ... but she makes her allegiance known by casually crossing over to the wall at one point and helping Snart hold it up, her hip tucked into his, her head just brushing his shoulder, subtly leaning back into him. And the usually prickly and space-conscious crook lets her.

 _Mine_ , her posture says.

 _OK_ , his agrees.

"So how do you two know each other, again?" Caitlin has been quiet, but she's eyeballing the two of them, skepticism on her face.

Sara laughs right out loud.

"That needs to wait for some day when we have a lot more time and a hell of a lot more alcohol," she says. "But ... here's what I can tell you about what happened today ..."

The Cliffs Notes version of the "robots attacking the city" situation requires many leaps of faith too. But it comes down to technology originally developed by Ray Palmer and pirated by ... someone else ... and a team tracking down this someone else. And if Team Flash can tell there's a hell of a lot being left out, well, they have their secrets, too.

"So, are you a part of that team?" Barry asks Snart.

He doesn't expect the question to set off a long, long look between Cold and Canary, a look that has enough history in it to be uncomfortable for everyone else in the room. And he never does get an answer.

Sara eventually breaks the gaze and looks around at them.

"That shower?" she says hopefully. "I love the outfit, Cisco, but I just fought in it for more than an hour. I want hot water, and a change of clothes if there's anything around."

Caitlin helpfully directs her down the hall to the facilities, as well as a small store of spare clothing. Sara thanks her profusely.

As she leaves, she throws Snart another one of those speaking glances ... and after a moment's pause, he follows her, turning as he walks to distribute a smirk to the room at large, one that clearly says, _yep, this is exactly what you_ think _it is_.

A ripple of laughter drifts back down the hall as he catches up to her.

They all contemplate this for a moment.

"I'm not going to be the one to tell Oliver," Barry informs the world in general. "Nope. There's just not enough 'nope' in the world."

* * *

When they return - Sara wearing a S.T.A.R. Labs T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that had to be rolled up and cinched in around the waist, Snart back in his habitual black, although he's carrying the parka - no one really has the nerve to look either of them in the eye.

Fortunately, at that point, there's another distraction in the form of yet another visitor.

"Ray!"

Sara crosses the room to give the other man a hug, which he returns. (He beams at Snart, who rolls his eyes.)

"Good work on getting those things out of action. Was the damage bad in Star City? Is everyone OK?"

"Team Arrow is fine. A little more damage there, I think, but mostly contained. I hear you helped out here," he tells Snart, who ignores him.

"Have you heard anything? About the team?"

Ray shrugs. "Comm's still dead. They're ..." He looks at Team Flash. "... uh, still not around here."

Something beeps on Cisco's computer console. He glances at it, then pulls himself over, eyes widening. "Guys ... I'm reading a massive surge of temporal energy. Like, ridiculously huge."

"Where?" Barry moves to peer over his shoulder as Caitlin joins them.

"That's the thing. It's not localized; it's just ... there. Sort of the same thing that happened last May."

Sara looks at Ray, and they both look at Snart, who's watching the group around the computer.

And then, for just a moment, he's outlined in blue light.

"What the _hell_ was that?" There's anger in his voice as he looks at his own hands, as if expecting them to betray him. And then he ... _flickers_ ...

"Cisco! What's going on?"

"I don't know! This is so weird. It's like an echo of that surge right here, but why ..."

The light's back. Snart flickers again. And again. He stares at his hands, then raises his head to look at Sara.

She sees his eyes through a haze of light, just like ...

The Oculus.

She lunges for him. For a fraction of a second, her fingertips brush his ...

And then he's gone, again in a flash of blue-white light ... and she's standing there, hand outstretched, to nothing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm evil. So very, very evil.
> 
> Don't worry; it's not done yet. One more chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, yet again, to LarielRomeniel for beta-ing. :)

Everything is blue light.

He should not, he thinks, feel corporeal. But he does: Arms, legs, head, hair still damp from the shower. There's even the faint impression of the cold gun at his hip.

He remembers everything.

He remembers arriving at the site the Brit in brown had specified, seeing a time ship materialize out of nowhere, walking toward it side by side with a intriguing blonde. He remembers watching her dance in the '70s. He remembers his 3-year-old self, the prison break at the gulag. Chronos. Savage with his knife at _her_ throat. Walking into the brig, six-shooters, the Pilgrim, Rob Roy's scotch.

Me and you. The Oculus. A first, and last, kiss.

And he remembers, too, walking away from the Brit and not looking back. The same blonde in the townhouse, months later, tears in her eyes. A knife through his sleeve, Thai food, the Yacht Club, a key. White wine on her lips, her hands on his scars. Mick and a bar brawl. A bullet ripping through his leg.

Me and you. Fighting at her side. The S.T.A.R. Labs shower.

He remembers falling for Sara Lance twice over.

He remembers everything. And he's really, _really_ pissed off.

As he remembers, he sees things, there in the blue. Wheels turning, he eventually tries to control them consciously, to steer toward what he wants to see. Or whom.

And there she is. Standing on the Waverider, Mick's hand on her shoulder, her voice rising as she lights into Rip. His gut clenches at the grief and the fury in her face, and he listens ...

* * *

"... you knew this renegade Time Master was recreating the Oculus, you _knew_ it, and you suspected it might have an effect ..."

"Sara. _Sara!_ " Only Mick is keeping her from Rip's throat. "You know I'm the first person to admit this asshole hasn't always been honest with us ..."

"Mr. Rory!"

"... but we didn't even suspect that's what she was doing until it was too late. And, sure, we thought maybe, just maybe, it could have an effect after we realized what was going on, but at that point it was kind of too late to do anything, or even to warn you. We barely made it out of there."

His words finally penetrate the pain and rage, and she backs up a pace, tears still streaming down her cheeks.

"We're going back there," she says. "We're going to this stupid rip-off Vanishing Point she's constructed and we're getting him back."

All of them know there may be nothing left to get back. Or that even if there is, they could wind up with a Snart who's been knocked back along the timeline again, who knows nothing of them. Again.

"We have to try," Rip says finally. "The amount of damage the Oculus could do in this woman's hands is ... unfathomable."

The look Sara gives him speaks volumes about how important she considers the integrity of the timeline right now, but she doesn't say anything. She just turns away, brushing past Mick and Ray and the others, heading for her room. Alone.

* * *

In the blue light, his fists clench.

He truly understands, now, the tears in her eyes when she saw him in the townhouse, the look on her face whenever he'd unconsciously evoked the five months of life he'd lived before. The fact that she mourned for him so hard after what happened at the first Vanishing Point is both salt in the wound and a gift so precious he can't quite fathom it. They'd never gotten more than "you'd better be a hell of a thief," after all, when he'd made a choice that destroyed even hope.

And then to get a second chance, to actually start to explore something, and to have it ripped away ...

He has to get back to her.

And, here, now, there's really only one thing he can do about that.

He takes a deep breath ... does he even have lungs here? ... and begins to study his surroundings.

* * *

"You think that when she pulled the pieces of the Oculus back together, he went too."

Her voice is numb, but at least she's there, she tells herself. Not holed up in her room, not beating the snot of the dummies in the gym. She's trying.

"That's the best theory we have. That the reforming Oculus 'thought' he was part of it, since he was right on top of the friggin' wellspring when it all went to hell." Mick hesitates. "Don't know what that means. Might mean he's standing there snarking at this bitch when we touch down, might mean that ..."

"... that his atoms are mixed in with those of the wellspring," she finishes. "Don't try to protect me, Mick."

"I'm not, Blondie. I know better. Fact is, we have no idea. This is all uncharted territory, just like before. Only thing we now know is that he apparently didn't snap back along the timeline again, and based on our own memories, both timelines are still there."

Losing him again is a bad enough proposition; she doesn't even want to entertain the notion of forgetting him ... the second incarnation every bit as much as the first. More.

They sit in silence a moment. Rip has been avoiding her on this trip through the temporal zone, whether through a guilty conscience or simply a disinclination to test her mood. She knows it's unfair she's partly blaming him, but she's doing it anyway.

"So this Time Master, she's apparently doing this, did all this, because she lost family ... just like Rip did?" she says finally. "How's he doing with that?"

Mick eyes her, but accepts the change of subject. There's a thought in the corners of her brain, just out of reach, but she's too tired, too stressed, to chase it down.

She just closes her eyes, and listens.

* * *

It might be 100 minutes, it might be 100 years, but he's getting better and better at navigating this strange environment. So when he recognizes an odd, vaguely familiar sensation, he pauses, concentrates on it.

Someone is trying to use this force in which he is immersed to change time, to pull strings. Familiar strings, even.

He is not, demonstrably, a fan of strings. And last time something like this happened, it wasn't anyone trustworthy doing the puppetry.

So he uses what he's learned, and bringing to bear what is not, after all, an insubstantial amount of willpower, puts his hand out, and says ...

" **No**."

* * *

"There it is."

Sara's the first one out of her jump chair, eyes on the sight out the forward window as Rip slows the ship down in approach.

"It doesn't look like much," Jax says, following her. "Looks more like a some sort of bare-bones outpost than that crazy-quilt thing the Time Masters had going on."

"It's the presence of the Oculus that makes it more," the former Time Master says absently, staring out the window. "The wellspring is still slowly rebuilding itself. If it stays here, the Vanishing Point could be rebuilt around it and with it, all the timeline information. It's sort of integral ... but I don't think she's interested in that, really. She just wants the power ... even if for understandable reasons ..."

But her thought from earlier suddenly returns, full force, and she blurts it right out, interrupting Rip's musings.

"If this former Time Master has the Oculus," she says, "why hasn't she stopped us?"

Rip stares at her. Mick moves to her shoulder, eyes narrowed. But it's Ray who pipes up.

"The Time Masters _wanted_ us to arrive last time," he says. "Right? She probably doesn't. We nearly took her down last time. If she has the Oculus, couldn't she make sure we somehow never got off the ground, got attacked by time pirates on the way, something like that?"

"Unless she's changed her mind, or we have something she wants?" Jax offers. "Maybe?"

But there's an odd look spreading over Mick's face, and he glances at Sara to see if she's thinking the same thing.

"Or maybe the Oculus," he says, " ... or a part of it ... is fighting her."

* * *

This would-be Time Master is angry. He can feel it, can feel her concentration and her frustration.

He's obdurate. She's not going to do this, she's not going to harm them, not going to turn them away; he's not going to let her. The Oculus knows him, he's the next best thing to part of it right now. She's just an upstart.

She pushes harder. He pushes back.

There's no challenge to it, really. But if he can make her think there is, maybe she won't notice until it's too late.

He can _see_ them coming.

* * *

Something is definitely going on.

They land without incident. Unlike what the others have told her of the last time, none of the stolen A.T.O.M. robots are there to bar the way, no time pirates paid off to act as guards. Mick is profoundly unhappy about it, but he remains with the ship; only Sara and Rip can also pilot it and there's absolutely no question of them staying.

_"Bring him back, Blondie."_

Jax, Stein, and Ray follow them, on their guard, but there's nothing to guard against yet. Rip's distracted; his footsteps slow outside the ship, forehead creased in thought.

"Rip! Where do we go to destroy this thing?"

But the Time Master has stopped in his tracks.

"We're not going to."

"What!?" Sara stops dead in her tracks, too, and turns on Rip, staring at him in shock. "The whole idea was to get this thing out of her hands, and to get Leonard out of there!"

He turns and grabs her by the shoulders; she starts to pull away, but he holds fast.

"Listen. The Oculus needs to exist. I've been thinking about it, consulting with Gideon. The world needs the Time Masters, plural. It just didn't need _those_ Time Masters. And the Oculus doesn't need to be a source of control; it can just be a source of information."

"I'm not leaving without him, Hunter. If I have to find a way to destroy it again for that to happen, I _will_."

* * *

Eventually, his adversary realizes that there's something going on beyond their struggle. Cursing, she stops trying to bend time to her will and withdraws.

He's done all he can without more time ... which strikes him as slightly ironic. But a quick glance through all the images revolving around him verifies she's here.

Sara. Sara. _Sara_.

He rebends his will toward disentangling himself.

But the Oculus isn't so sure, really, that it wants to let him go.

* * *

Hunter's still trying to explain himself to a furious assassin when the rightness of the universe ... that wherever they go, chaos will follow ... reasserts itself. Someone has realized they're there. A.T.O.M. robots pour out of a nearby hatch; Ray takes flight and Stein and Jax merge and follow suit. Sara shoves Rip toward a nearby overhang; he lets her.

"If we've right ... well, the thing is, he's not supposed to be part of it," he yells over the din. "You're going to have to extract him. The actual Oculus device ... it will be in a small chamber somewhere in here. Look for images, revolving around a center point. It responds to willpower; you've got plenty of that. You're going to have to be very, very specific about what you're asking, though ... take care not to pull anything from the wrong point in the timeline."

"What about you?"

His smile is a little lopsided. "Well. Given what I did to try to stop Savage, I'd be a little hypocritical to condemn Ms. Baxter entirely, wouldn't I? Maybe I can sway her to my way of thinking. She's partly right, after all. Not right enough to be given a free pass, of course ... but ... we'll see.

"Now, you! Go. Get your crook back."

* * *

_?_

It's like a child, really. And it's not pleased ... can such a thing really have emotions? ... to find he's trying to separate himself from it.

 _I don't belong here_ , he tells it. _It was an accident._

_?_

_Then where do you belong?_ it asks, if not in so many words.

Good question.

The Waverider isn't quite it. Central City, perhaps. But as he's thinking, the slowly revolving images around him take on a different tone from the cityscapes that momentarily populated them.

Sara.

Across time in the Waverider. Recently, in Central City. Before he knew her, even, falling from the Gambit, in her Canary black leather, rising from the Pit.

And forward. The images are moving so fast now he can't quite make them out, and he's not sure he has the nerve to do so.

_!_

_Yeah_ , he sighs.

 _!_ , it insists. _!_

* * *

She feels like she's been running through the labyrinth of halls forever when she turns a corner and nearly runs right through a urgently spinning kaleidoscope of images.

It takes her a moment to realize ... is that ... her?

The whirling lights slow and she realizes that, yes, it is. Laughing with Laurel. Kicking butt in an assassin's garb. Kissing Snart at the first Oculus.

And then he's there, right there, not in a memory, staring back at her through the whirling light.

She takes a deep breath, stretches her hand out. Through the blue light, through the images, through time itself.

He reaches out, and takes it.

* * *

A few days shy of the one-year anniversary of the day she went looking for a flesh-and-blood ghost in Central City, Sara Lance walks off the Waverider for good.

Well, not, perhaps, forever. Its new captain is a friend, after all, and although she's declined the invitation to be part of the new regime of Time Masters, there's work still to be done there. Perhaps she will help with that.

Eventually.

Mick, waiting for her at the edge of the hatch, lifts her right off her feet in a bear hug. She laughs and hugs him back, reveling in a friendship that's been as unexpected as anything else about this whole trip.

He'll make a good captain. What else is he going to do with all the temporal information the Time Masters crammed into his skull? And he'll keep an eye on Rip and this mad plan their former leader has to re-create the Time Masters and the Vanishing Point around the slowly reforming Oculus - a better group of Time Masters this time around, one that doesn't do things like kill off families to suit its own ends. The Oculus as a source of information, not as a source of strings. They won't have much choice, as the ... entity? ... has shown a newfound sort of recalcitrance toward being used by those who only want to play puppet master.

 _Gee_ , she thinks. _I wonder where it got that from?_

Ray is another surprise. He's opted to stay on as Mick's second, to recruit a new team and carry on righting wrongs across time.

"I can do good out there," he's told her earnestly. "And most people still think I'm dead back home. This is the right thing to do."

She hugs him, too.

Jax and Stein are going home; in fact, they've already said their goodbyes and departed. Stein has told her, with a sigh and a smile, that he misses his wife. Jax is reapplying to college, with the assistance of his partner in Firestorm. They've had their adventure. There are more waiting for them at home.

She knows the feeling.

When Mick puts her down, he looks over her shoulder

"I won't tell you to take care of her, you asshole," he tells the man behind her, "because she can damn well do that herself. But remember how lucky you are, all right?"

A sigh.

"I'm not likely to forget that," Leonard Snart says in that infuriating drawl. "You all keep telling me."

She's reassured herself multiple times, in multiple ways, that he's flesh and blood and bone, here and real, complete with a full - more than full - set of memories. He's not sure what happened to him in the Oculus, save that natural stubbornness led him to resist Baxter's attempts to use it to control the teammates coming to retrieve him and the Oculus apparently ... appreciated ... this.

(Rip is not sure what to make of this calm assertion that the Oculus has an odd sort of sentience. Sara has a certain suspicion that's one reason Snart made sure to tell him.)

Gideon swears he's unchanged, except for a newfound sensitivity to temporal energy that mainly seems to manifest itself as extra twitchiness in the temporal zone. It can be counteracted by sufficient distraction, and they've taken plenty of enjoyment from finding ways to handle that.

That's only a minor reason for the decision they've mutually come to in the quiet moments between ... distractions. Certain words that had not, until that time, been uttered in either timeline have been said. A so-called normal life may not be in the cards for them, but a semi-normal one?

It's worth a shot.

It means the end, temporary or not, of an older partnership. Here and now, he and Mick regard each other, a standoff that ends when the older man rolls his eyes and drags his oldest friend into a bear hug of his own. (Ray settles for a handshake and one last verbal potshot as a victory in and of itself.)

And then they're on the outside looking on as the hatch closes and the Waverider lifts into the sky, engines firing. She watches it, and remembers.

_"I consider myself to be a broad-minded individual, but this is a lot to take in..."_

_"And why are you telling_ me _this?"_

A flare of light and the time ship is gone. It's silent again in the field at the outskirts of Central City.

And then he turns around and looks at her. Smart-ass smirk, that light in his eyes.

Unexpected.

"So," he says. "Home?"

* * *

"Though lovers be lost love shall not;

And death shall have no dominion."

\- Dylan Thomas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of "If I Never."
> 
> I plan to post a variety of one-shots set in this universe over the summer, both "deleted scenes" and following up on what our intrepid duo is doing with their lives, and perhaps with the Waverider crew (and Team Flash) as well. I always intended Leonard to end up back on the Waverider in the end, but the characters said, "Nope!" and I'm curious to see what I can do with that.
> 
> But the original idea, that of "if I never knew you," has pretty much come full circle, 22,000+ words later. I hope you've enjoyed it.


End file.
